^0 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PLAYS  BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


THE  SILVER  BOX 

JOY 

STRIFE 

JUSTICE 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  PIGEON 

THE  FUGITIVE 


THE  FUGITIVE 

A  PLAY  IN   FOUR  ACTS 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/fugitiveplayinfoOOgalsiala 


THE  FUGITIVE 

A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1913 


COPTRIQHT,  1913,  BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  October,  1913 


Coilegt 
Library 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 


PR 
loO\3 


George  Dedmond,  a  civilian 

Clare,  his  wife 

General  Sir  Charles  Dedmond,  K.C.B.,  his  father. 

Lady  Dedmond,  his  mother 

Reginald  Huntingdon,  Clare's  brother 

Edward   Ftjllarton  ) ,      ,  .     , 
^  _,  >  her  friends 

Dorothy  Fullarton ) 

Paynter,  a  manservant 

BuRNEY,  a  maid 

Twisden,  a  solicitor 

Haywood,  a  tobacconist 

Malise,  a  writer 

Mrs.  Miler,  his  caretaker 

The  Porter  at  his  lodgings 

A  Boy  messenger 

Arnaud,  a  waiter  at  "  The  Gascony" 

Mb.  Varley,  manager  of  "  The  Gascony" 

Two  Ladies  with  L.\rge  Hats,  a  Lady  and  Gentleman,  a 

Languid  Ix)rd,  His  Companion,  a  Young  Man,  a  Blond 

Gentleman,  a  Dark  Gentleman. 

ACT      I.     George  Dedmond' s  Flat.     Evening. 
ACT    II.     The  rooms  of  Malise.     Morning. 
ACT  III.    SCENE    I.  The  rooms  of  Malise.    Late  afternoon. 
SCENE  II.   The  rooms  of  Malise.     Early  After- 
noon. 
ACT  IV.    A  small  supper  room  at  "  The  Gascony." 

Between  Acts  I  and  II  three  nights  elapse. 

Between  Acts  II  and  Act  III,  Scene  I,  three  months. 

Between  Act  III,  Scene  I,  and  Act  III,  Scene  II,  three 

months. 
Between  Act  III,  Scene  II,  and  Act  IV  six  months. 


CAST  OF  THE  FIRST  PRODUCTION 

AT   THE 

ROYAL  COURT  THEATRE,  SEPTEMBER  16.  1913 


George  Dedmond 

Clare 

General  Sir  Charles  Dedmond,  K.C.B 

Lady  Dedmond 

Reginald  Huntingdon 

Edward  Fullarton 

Mrs.  Fullarton 

Paynter 

Barney 

Twisden 

Haywood 

Malise 

Mrs.  Miler 

Porter 

A  Messenger  Boy 


Mr.  Claude  King 

Miss  Irene  Rooke 

Mr.  Nigel  Playfaib 

Miss  Alma  Murray 

Mb.  Hylton  Allen 

Mr.  Leslie  Rea 

Miss  Estelle  Winwood 

Mr.  Frank  Macrae 

Miss  Doris  Bateman 

Mb.  J.  H.  Roberts 

Mb.  Chaeles  Groves 

Mr.  Milton  Rosmeb 

Mbs.  a.  B.  Tapping 

Mb.  Ebic  Babbeb 


characters  in  act  four 


A  Young  Man 

Arnaud 

Mr.  Varley 

A  Languid  Lord 

His  Companion 

A  Blond  Gentleman 

Two  Ladies  with  large  hats 


Mb.  Vincent  Clive 

Mb.  Clabence  Debwent 

Mb.  Chaeles  Geoves 

Mb.  J.  H.  Robebts 

Miss  Moee-Dunphie 

Mb.  Leslie  Rea 

Misses  Bateman  and 

Newcombe 


'With  a  hey-ho  chivy — 
Hark-forrard,  hark-forrard,  tantivy  I' 


ACT  I 

TJie  ScKNE  is  the  pretty  dravdng-room  of  a  flat.  There 
are  two  doors,  one  open  into  the  hall,  the  other  shut 
and  curtained.  Through  a  large  bay  vxindow,  the 
curtains  of  which  are  not  yet  drawn,  the  towers  of 
Westminster  can  he  seen  darkening  in  a  summer 
sunset;  a  grand  piano  stands  across  one  comer. 
The  man-servant  Patnter,  clean-shaven  and  dis- 
creet, is  arranging  two  tables  for  Bridge. 

BtJBNEY,  the  maid,  a  girl  with  one  of  those  flowery 
Botticellian  faces  only  mM  vxith  in  England,  comes 
in  through  the  curtained  door,  which  she  leaves  open, 
disclosing  the  glimpse  of  a  white  wall.  Paynter 
looks  up  at  her;  she  shakes  her  head,  v/ith  an  expres- 
sion of  concern. 

Paynter.  Where's  she  gone? 

BuRNEY.  Just  walks  about,  I  fancy. 

Paynter.  She  and  the  Governor  don't  hit  it!  One 
of  these  days  she'll  flit — you'll  see.  I  like  her — she's 
a  lady;  but  these  throughbred  'uns — it's  their  skin  and 
their  mouths.  They'll  go  till  they  drop  if  they  like 
the  job,  and  if  they  don't,  it's  nothing  but  jib — jib — 
jib.    How  was  it  down  there  before  she  married  him? 

BuRNEY.  Oh!    Quiet,  of  course. 
1 


2  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

Paynter.  Country   homes — I   know    'em.     What's 
her  father,  the  old  Rector,  like? 

BuRNEY.  Oh!  very  steady  old  man.      The  mother 
dead  long  before  I  took  the  place. 
Paynter.  Not  a  penny,  I  suppose? 
BuRNEY.  [Shaking  her  head]  No;  and  seven  of  them. 
Paynter.    [At  sound  of  tlie   hall   door]    The   Gov- 
ernor! 

BuKNEY  withdraws  through  the  curtained  door. 
George  Dedmond  enters  from  the  hall.     He  is 
in  evening  dress,  opera  hat,  and  overcoat;  his 
face  is  broad,  comely,  glossily  shaved,  hut  with 
neat  moustaches.     His  eyes,  clear,  small,  and 
blue-grey,  have  little  speculation.     His  hair  is 
well  brushed. 
George.  [Handing  Paynter  his  coat  and  hat]  Look 
here,  Paynter!     When  I  send  up  from  the  Club  for  my 
dress  things,  always  put  in  a  black  waistcoat  as  well. 
Paynter.  I  asked  the  mistress,  sir. 
George.  In  future — see? 

Paynter.  Yes,  sir.  [Signing  towards  the  window]  Shall 
I  leave  the  sunset,  sir? 

But  George  has  crossed  to  the  curtained  door; 
he  opens  it  and  says:  "Clare!"     Receiving  no 
answer,  he  goes  in.     Paynter  switches  up  the 
electric  light.     His  face,  turned  towards  the  cur- 
tained door,  is  apprehensive. 
George.  [Re-entering]  Where's  Mrs.  Dedmond? 
Paynter.  I  hardly  know,  sir. 
George.  Dined  in? 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  3 

Paynter.  She  had  a  mere  nothing  at  seven,  sir. 

George.  Has  she  gone  out,  since? 

Paynter.  Yes,  sir — that  is,  yes.  The — er — mis- 
tress was  not  dressed  at  all.  A  little  matter  of  fresh 
air,  I  think,  sir. 

George.  What  time  did  my  mother  say  they'd  be 
here  for  Bridge.' 

Paynter.  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Dedmond  were 
coming  at  half-past  nine;  and  Captain  Huntingdon, 
too — Mr.  and  Mrs.  FuUarton  might  be  a  bit  late,  sir. 

George.  It's  that  now.  Your  mistress  said  noth- 
ing? 

Paynter.  Not  to  me,  sir. 

George.  Send  Burney. 

Paynter.  Very  good,  sir.  [He  withdraws. 

George  stares  gloomily  at  the  card  tables.  Bur- 
ney comes  in  from  the  hall. 

George.  Did  your  mistress  say  anything  before  she 
went  out? 

Burney.  Yes,  sir. 

George.  Well? 

Burney.  I  don't  think  she  meant  it,  sir. 

George.  I  don't  want  to  know  what  you  don't 
think,  I  want  the  fact. 

Burney.  Yes,  sir.  The  mistress  said:  "I  hope  it'll 
be  a  pleasant  evening,  Burney!" 

George.  Oh! — Thanks. 

Burney.  I've  put  out  the  mistress's  things,  sir. 

George.  Ah! 

Burney.  Thank  you,  sir.  [She  vnthdraws. 


4  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

George.  Damn! 

He  again  goes  to  the  curtained  door,  and  passes 
through.  Paynter,  coming  in  from  the  hall, 
announces:  "General  Sir  Charles  and  Lady 
Dedmond."  Sir  Charles  is  an  upright,  well- 
groomed,  grey-moustached,  red-faced  man  of 
sixty-seven,  with  a  keen  eye  for  molehills,  and 
none  at  aU  for  mountains.  Lady  Dedmond 
has  a  firm,  thin  face,  full  of  capability  and  de- 
cision, not  without  kindliness;  and  faintly 
weathered,  as  if  she  had  faced  many  situations 
in  many  parts  of  the  world.  She  is  fifty-five. 
Paynter  withdraws. 
Sir  Charles.  Hullo!    Where  are  they.''    H'm! 

As  he  speaks,  George  re-enters. 
Lady  Dedmond.  [Kissing    her    son]  Well,    George. 
Where's  Clare.'' 

George.  Afraid  she's  late. 
Lady  Dedmond.  Are  we  early? 
George.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she's  not  in. 
Lady  Dedmond.  Oh? 

Sir  Charles.  H'm!    Not — not  had  a  rumpus? 
George.  Not  particularly.  \Wilh  the  first  real  sign  of 
feeling]  What  I  can't  stand  is  being  made  a  fool  of 
before  other  people.     Ordinary  friction  one  can  put  up 

with.      But  that 

Sir  Charles.  Gone  out  on  purpose?    What! 

Lady  Dedmond.  What  was  the  trouble? 

George.  I  told  her  this  morning  you  were  coming  in 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  5 

to  Bridge.  Appears  she'd  asked  that  fellow  Malise, 
for  music. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Without  letting  you  know.? 

George.  I  believe  she  did  tell  me. 

Lady  Dedmond.  But  surely 

George.  I  don't  want  to  discuss  it.  There's  never 
anything  in  particular.  We're  all  anyhow,  as  you 
know. 

Lady  Dedmond.  I  see.  [She  looks  shrewdly  at  her  son] 
My  dear,  I  should  be  rather  careful  about  him,  I  think. 

Sir  Charles.  Who's  that.'* 

Lady  Dedmond.  That  Mr.  Malise. 

Sir  Charles.  Oh!    That  chap! 

George.  Clare  isn't  that  sort. 

Lady  Dedmond.  I  know.  But  she  catches  up  no- 
tions very  easily.  I  think  it's  a  great  pity  you  ever 
came  across  him. 

Sir  Charles.  Where  did  you  pick  him  up? 

George.  Italy — this  Spring — some  place  or  other 
where  they  couldn't  speak  English. 

Sir  Charles.  Um!    That's  the  worst  of  travellin'. 

Lady  Dedmond.  I  think  you  ought  to  have  dropped 
him.  These  literary  people —  [Quietly]  From  ex- 
changing ideas  to  something  else,  isn't  very  far, 
George. 

Sir  Charles.  We'll  make  him  play  Bridge.  Do 
him  good,  if  he's  that  sort  of  fellow. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Is  anyone  else  coming? 

George.  Reggie  Huntingdon,  and  the  FuUartons. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [Softly]  You  know,  my  dear  boy. 


6  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

I've  been  meaning  to  speak  to  you  for  a  long  time. 
It  is  such  a  pity  you  and  Clare —    What  is  it? 

George.  God  knows!    I  try,  and  I  believe  she  does. 

Sir  Charles.  It's  distressin'  for  us,  you  know,  my 
dear  fellow — distressin'. 

Lady  Dedmond.  I  know  it*s  been  going  on  for  a  long 
time. 

George.  Oh!  leave  it  alone,  mother. 

Lady  Dedmond.  But,  George,  I'm  afraid  this  man 
has  brought  it  to  a  point — put  ideas  into  her  head. 

George.  You  can't  dislike  him  more  than  I  do. 
But  there's  nothing  one  can  object  to. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Could  Reggie  Huntingdon  do  any- 
thing, now  he's  home.''     Brothers  sometimes 

George.  I  can't  bear  my  affairs  being  messed  about 
with. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Well!  it  would  be  better  for  you 
and  Clare  to  be  supposed  to  be  out  together,  than 
for  her  to  be  out  alone.  Go  quietly  into  the  dining- 
room  and  wait  for  her. 

Sir  Charles.  Good!  Leave  your  mother  to  make 
up  something.    She'll  do  it! 

[A  hell  sounds. 

Lady  Dedmond.  That  may  be  he.    Quick! 

George  goes  out  into  the  hall,  leaving  the  door 
open  in  his  haste.  Lady  Dedmond,  following, 
calls  "  Paynter ! ' '     Paynter  enters. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Don't  say  anything  about  your 
master  and  mistress  being  out.     I'll  explain. 

Paynter.  The  master,  my  lady? 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  7 

Lady  Dedmond.  Yes,  I  know.  But  you  needn't 
say  so.     Do  you  understand.'* 

Paynter.  [In  polite  dudgeon]  Just  so,  my  lady. 

[He  goes  out. 

Sib  Charles.  By  Jove!    That  fellow  smells  a  rat! 

Lady  Dedmond.  Be  careful,  Charles! 

Sib  Chaeles.  I  should  think  so. 

Lady  Dedmond.  I  shall  simply  say  they're  dining 
out,  and  that  we're  not  to  wait  Bridge  for  them. 

Sib  Charles.  [Listening]  He's  having  a  palaver 
with  that  man  of  George's. 

Paynter,  reappearing,  announces:  "Captain 
Huntingdon."  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Ded- 
mond turn  to  him  with  relief. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Ah!    It's  you,  Reginald! 

Huntingdon.  [A  tall,  fair  soldier,  of  thirty]  How 
d'you  do.'  How  are  you,  sir.^*  What's  the  matter 
with  their  man.' 

Sir  Charles.  What! 

Huntingdon.  I  was  going  into  the  dining-room  to 
get  rid  of  my  cigar;  and  he  said:  "Not  in  there,  sir. 
The  master's  there,  but  my  instructions  are  to  the 
eflFect  that  he's  not." 

Sir  Charles.  I  knew  that  fellow 

Lady  Dedmond.  The  fact  is,  Reginald,  Clare's  out, 
and  George  is  waiting  for  her.  It's  so  important 
people  shouldn't 

Huntingdon.  Rather! 

They  draw  together,  as  people  do,  discussing  the 
misfortunes  of  members  of  their  families. 


8  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

Lady  Dedmond.  It's  getting  serious,  Reginald.  I 
don't  know  what's  to  become  of  them.  You  don't 
think  the  Rector — you  don't  think  your  father  would 
speak  to  Clare? 

Huntingdon.  Afraid  the  Governor's  hardly  well 
enough.  He  takes  anything  of  that  sort  to  heart  so 
— especially  Clare. 

Sir  Charles.  Can't  you  put  in  a  word  yourself.'' 

Huntingdon.  Don't  know  where  the  mischief  lies. 

Sib  Charles.  I'm  sure  George  doesn't  gallop  her  on 
the  road.     Very  steady-goin'  fellow,  old  George. 

Huntingdon.  Oh,  yes;  George  is  all  right,  sir. 

Lady  Dedmond.  They  ought  to  have  had  children. 

Huntingdon.  Expect  they're  pretty  glad  now  they 
haven't.     I  really  don't  know  what  to  say,  ma'am. 

Sir  Charles.  Saving  your  presence,  you  know, 
Reginald,  I've  often  noticed  parsons'  daughters  grow 
up  queer.     Get  too  much  morality  and  rice  puddin'. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [With  a  clear  look]  Charles! 

Sib  Charles.  What  was  she  like  when  you  were 
kids? 

Huntingdon.  Oh,  all  right.  Could  be  rather  a 
little  devil,  of  course,  when  her  monkey  was  up. 

Sir  Chables.  I'm  fond  of  her.  Nothing  she  wants 
that  she  hasn't  got,  is  there? 

Huntingdon.  Never  heard  her  say  so. 

Sib  Chables.  [Dimly]  I  don't  know  whether  old 
George  is  a  bit  too  matter  of  fact  for  her.     H'm? 

[A  short  silence. 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  9 

Lady  Dedmond.  There's  a  Mr.  Malise  coming  here 
to-night.     I  forget  if  you  know  him. 

Huntingdon.  Yes.      Rather  a  thorough-bred  mon- 
grel. 

Lady  Dedmond.  He's  literary.  [With  hesitation]  You 
— you  don't  think  he — puts — er — ideas  into  her  head.!* 

Huntingdon.  I  asked  Greyman,  the  novelist,  about 
him;  seems  he's  a  bit  of  an  Ishmaelite,  even  among 

those  fellows.     Can't  see  Clare 

Lady  Dedmond.  No.    Only,  the  great  thing  is  that 
she   shouldn't   be   encouraged.     Listen! — It   is   her — 
coming  in.     I  can  hear  their   voices.     Gone  to   her 
room.    What   a   blessing   that   man   isn't   here   yet! 
[The  door  bell  rings]  Tt!    There  he  is,  I  expect. 
Sir  Charles.  What  are  we  goin'  to  say? 
Huntingdon.  Say  they're  dining  out,  and  we're  not 
to  wait  Bridge  for  them. 
Sir  Charles.  Good! 

The  door  is  opened,  and  Paynter  announces 
"Mr.  Kenneth  Malise."    Malise  enters.     He 
is  a  tall  man,  about  thirty-five,  with  a  strongly- 
marked,  dark,  irregidar,  ironic  face,  and  eyes 
which  seem  to  have  needles  in  their  pupils.    His 
thick  hair  is  rather  untidy,  and  his  dress  clothes 
not  too  new. 
Lady  Dedmond.  How  do  you   do.!*    My   son   and 
daughter-in-law  are  so  very  sorry.    They'll  be  here 
directly. 

[Malise  bows  with  a  queer,  curly  smile. 
Sib  Charles.  [Shaking  hands]  How  d'you  do,  sir.'' 


10  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

Huntingdon.  We've  met,  I  think. 

He  gives  Malise  that  'peculiar  smiling  stare, 
which  seems  to  warn  the  person  bowed  to  of  the 
sort  of  person  he  is.     Malise's  eyes  sparkle. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Clare  will  be  so  grieved.    One  of 
those  invitations 

Malise.  On  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

Sir  Charles.  You  play  Bridge,  sir? 

Malise.  Afraid  not! 

Sir  Charles.  Don't   mean   that?    Then   we   shall 
have  to  wait  for  'em. 

Lady  Dedmond.  I  forget,  Mr.  Malise — ^you  write, 
don't  you? 

Malise.  Such  is  my  weakness. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Delightful  profession. 

Sib  Charles.  Doesn't  tie  you!    What! 

Malise.  Only  by  the  head. 

Sir  Charles.  I'm  always  thinkin'  of  writin'  my  ex- 
periences. 

Malise.  Indeed! 

{There  is  the  sound  of  a  door  hanged. 

Sm  Charles.  [Hastily]  You  smoke,  Mr.  Malise? 

Malise.  Too  much. 

Sir  Charles.  Ah!    Must  smoke  when  you  think  a 
lot. 

Malise.  Or  think  when  you  smoke  a  lot. 

Sir  Charles.  [Genially]  Don't    know    that    I    find 
that. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [With  her  clear  look  at  him]  Charles! 
The  door  is  opened.    Clare  Dedmond  in  a 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  11 

cream-coloured  evening  frock  comes  in  from  the 
hall,  followed  by  George.     She  is  rather  pale, 
of  middle  height,  with  a  beautiful  figure,  wavy 
brown  hair,  full,  smiling  lips,  and  large  grey 
mesmeric  eyes,  one  of  those  women  all  vibration, 
iced  over  vnth  a  trained  stoicism  of  voice  and 
manner. 
Lady  Dedmond.  Well,  my  dear! 
Sib  Charles.  Ah!  George.     Good  dinner.'* 
George.  [Giving  his  hand  to  Malise]  How  are  you? 
Clare!     Mr.  Malise! 

Clare.  [Smiling — in  a  clear  voice  vnth  the  faintest 

possible  lisp]  Yes,  we  met  on  the  door-mat.        [Pause. 

Sir  Charles.  Deuce  you  did !      [An  awkward  pause. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [Acidly]  Mr.   Malise  doesn't  play 

Bridge,  it  appears.     Afraid  we  shall  be  rather  in  the 

way  of  music. 

Sib  Charles.  What !    Aren't  we  goin'  to  get  a  game? 
[Paynter  has  entered  vnth  a  tray. 
George.  Paynter!    Take  that  table  into  the  dining- 
room. 

Payntee.  [Putting  down  the  tray  on  a  table  behind 
the  door]  Yes,  sir. 

Malise.  Let  me  give  you  a  hand. 

Paynter  and  Malise  carry  one  of  the  Bridge 
tables  out,  George  making  a  half-hearted  at- 
tempt to  relieve  Malise. 
Sib  Charles.  Very  fine  sunset! 

Quite  softly   Clare  begins  to  laugh.     All  look 
at  her  first  with  surprise,  then  with  offence. 


12  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

then  almost  vnth  horror.    George  is  about  to 
go  up  to  her,  but  Huntingdon  heads  him  off. 
Huntingdon.  Bring  the  tray  along,  old  man. 

George    takes   up    the   tray,    stops  to   look    at 

Clare,  then  allows  Huntingdon  to  shepherd 

him  out. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [Without  looking  at  Clare]  Well,  if 

we're  going  to  play,  Charles.'*  [She  jerks  his  sleeve. 

Sir  Charles.  What?  [He  marches  out. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [Meeting  Malise  in  the  doorway] 

Now  you  will  be  able  to  have  your  music. 

[She  follows  the  General  out. 
[Clare  stands  perfectly  still,  with  her  eyes  closed. 
Malise.  Delicious! 

Clare.  [In  her  level,  clipped  voice]  Perfectly  beastly 
of  me!  I'm  so  sorry,  I  simply  can't  help  running 
amok  to-night. 

Malise.  Never  apologize  for  being  fey.  It's  much 
too  rare. 

Clare.  On  the  door-mat!     And  they'd  whitewashed 

me  so  beautifully!  Poor  dears!   I  wonder  if  I  ought 

[She  looks  towards  the  door. 
Malise.  Don't  spoil  it! 

Clare.  I'd  been  walking  up  and  down  the  Em- 
bankment for  about  three  hours.  One  does  get  des- 
perate sometimes. 

Malise.  Thank  God  for  that! 

Clare.  Only  makes  it  worse  afterwards.  It  seems 
so  frightful  to  them,  too. 

Mause.  [Softly  and  suddenly,  but  with  a  difficulty 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  13 

in  finding  the  right  words]  Blessed  be  the  respectable! 
May  they  dream  of — me!  And  blessed  be  all  men  of 
the  world!  May  they  perish  of  a  surfeit  of — good 
form! 

Clare.  I  like  that.  Oh,  won't  there  be  a  row! 
[With  a  faint  movement  of  her  shoulders]  And  the  usual 
reconciliation. 

Malise.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  there's  a  whole  world  out- 
side yours.     Why  don't  you  spread  your  wings? 

Clare.  My  dear  father's  a  saint,  and  he's  getting 
old  and  frail;  and  I've  got  a  sister  engaged;  and  three 
little  sisters  to  whom  I'm  supposed  to  set  a  good  ex- 
ample. Then,  I've  no  money,  and  I  can't  do  anything 
for  a  living,  except  serve  in  a  shop.  I  shouldn't  be 
free,  either;  so  what's  the  good.-*  Besides,  I  oughtn't 
to  have  married  if  I  wasn't  going  to  be  happy.  You 
see,  I'm  not  a  bit  misimderstood  or  ill-treated.  It's 
only 

Malise.  Prison.    Break  out! 

Clare.  [Turning  to  the  toindow]  Did  you  see  the 
sunset?     That  white  cloud  trying  to  fly  up? 

[<S^  holds  up  her  bare  arms,  with  a  motion  of  flight. 

Malise.  [Admiring  her]  Ah-h-h!  [Then,  as  she  drops 
her  arms  suddenly]  Play  me  something. 

Clare.  [Going  to  the  piano]  I'm  awfully  grateful  to 
you.  You  don't  make  me  feel  just  an  attractive  fe- 
male. I  wanted  somebody  like  that.  [Letting  her  hands 
rest  on  the  notes]  All  the  same,  I'm  glad  not  to  be 

ugly- 

Malise.  Thank  God  for  beauty! 


14  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

Paynter.  [Opening  the  door]  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fullarton. 
Malise.  Who  are  they? 

Clare.  [Rising]  She's  my  chief  pal.  He  was  in  the 
Navy. 

She  goes  forward.   Mrs.  Fullarton  is  a  rather 

tall  woman,  with  dark  hair  and  a  quick  eye. 

He,  one  of  those  clean-shaven  naval  Tnen  of  good 

presence  who  have  retired  from  the  sea,  but  not 

from  their  susceptibility. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  [Kissing   Clare,   and   taking   in 

both  Malise  and  her  husband's  look  at  Clare]  We've 

only  come  for  a  minute. 

Clare.  They're  playing  Bridge  in  the  dining-room. 
Mr.  Malise  doesn't  play.  Mr.  Malise — Mrs.  Fullar- 
ton, Mr.  Fullarton. 

[They  greet. 
Fullarton.  Most  awfully  jolly  dress,  Mrs.  Ded- 
mond. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Yes,  lovely,  Clare.  [Fullarton 
abases  eyes  which  mechanically  readjust  themselves]  We 
can't  stay  for  Bridge,  my  dear;  I  just  wanted  to  see 
you  a  minute,  that's  all.  [Seeing  Huntingdon  coming 
in  she  speaks  in  a  low  voice  to  her  husband]  Edward,  I 
want  to  speak  to  Clare.  How  d'you  do.  Captain 
Huntingdon.'* 

Malise.  I'll  say  good-night. 

He  shakes  hands  with  Clare,  bows  to  Mrs. 
Fullarton,  and  makes  his  way  out.  Hunt- 
ingdon and  Fullarton  foregather  in  the 
doorway. 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  15 

Mss.  FuLLABTON.  How  ate  things,  Clare?  [Clare 
j-uM  moves  her  shoulders]  Have  you  done  what  I  sug- 
gested?    Your  room? 

Clare.  No. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Why  not? 

Clare.  I  don't  want  to  torture  him.  If  I  strike — 
I'll  go  clean.     I  expect  I  shall  strike. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  My  dear!  You'll  have  the  whole 
world  against  you. 

Clare.  Even  you  won't  back  me,  Dolly? 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Of  course  I'll  back  you,  all  that's 
possible,  but  I  can't  invent  things. 

Clare.  You  wouldn't  let  me  come  to  you  for  a  bit, 
till  I  could  find  my  feet? 

IVIrs.  Fullarton,  taken  aback,  cannot  refrain 
from  her  glance  at  Fullarton  automatically 
gazing  at  Clare  while  he  talks  vyith  Hunt- 
ingdon. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Of  course — the  only  thing  is 
that 

Clare.  {With  a  faint  smile]  It's  all  right,  Dolly. 
I'm  not  coming. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Oh!  don't  do  anything  desperate, 
Clare — you  are  so  desperate  sometimes.  You  ought 
to  make  terms — not  tracks. 

Clare.  Haggle?  [She  shakes  her  head]  What  have 
I  got  to  make  terms  with?  What  he  still  wants  is 
just  what  I  hate  giving. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  But,  Clare 


16  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

Claee.  No,  Dolly;  even  you  don't  understand.  All 
day  and  every  day — just  as  far  apart  as  we  can  be — 
and  still —     Jolly,  isn't  it?  If  you've  got  a  soul  at  all. 

Mbs.  Fullabton.  It's  awful,  really. 

Clare.  I  suppose  there  are  lots  of  women  who  feel 
as  I  do,  and  go  on  with  it;  only,  you  see,  I  happen  to 
have  something  in  me  that — comes  to  an  end.  Can't 
endure  beyond  a  certain  time,  ever. 

She  has  taken  a  flower  from  her  dress,  and  sud- 
denly tears  it  to  bits.  It  is  the  only  sign  of 
emotion  she  has  given. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  [Watching]  Look  here,  my  child; 
this  won't  do.  You  must  get  a  rest.  Can't  Reggie 
take  you  with  him  to  India  for  a  bit? 

Clare.  [Shaking  her  head]  Reggie  lives  on  his  pay. 

Mrs.  Fullabton.  [With  one  of  her  quick  looks]  That 
was  Mr.  Malise,  then? 

FuLLARTON.  [Coming  towards  them]  I  say,  Mrs.  Ded- 
mond,  you  wouldn't  sing  me  that  little  song  you  sang 
the  other  night,  [He  huTns]  "If  I  might  be  the  falling 
bee  and  kiss  thee  all  the  day"?   Remember? 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  "The  falling  tZew,"  Edward.  We 
simply  must  go,  Clare.     Good-night.      [She  kisses  her. 

Fullarton.  [Taking  half -cover  between  his  wife  and 
Clare]  It  suits  you  down  to  the  ground — that  dress. 

Clare.  Good-night. 

Huntingdon  sees  them  out.  Left  alone  Clare 
clbnches  her  hands,  moves  swiftly  across  to  the 
loindow,  and  stands  looking  out. 

Huntingdon.  [Returning]  Look  here,  Clare! 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  17 

Clare.  Well,  Reggie? 

Huntingdon.  This  is  working  up  for  a  mess,  old 
girl.  You  can't  do  this  kind  of  thing  with  impunity. 
No  man'U  put  up  with  it.  If  you've  got  anything 
against  George,  better  tell  me.  [Clare  shakes  her  head] 
You  ought  to  know  I  should  stick  by  you.  What  is  it? 
Come? 

Clare.  Get  married,  and  find  out  after  a  year  that 
she's  the  wrong  person;  so  wrong  that  you  can't  ex- 
change a  single  real  thought;  that  your  blood  runs  cold 
when  she  kisses  you — then  you'll  know. 

Huntingdon.  My  dear  old  girl,  I  don't  want  to  be 
a  brute;  but  it's  a  bit  difficult  to  believe  in  that,  except 
in  novels. 

Clare.  Yes,  incredible,  when  you  haven't  tried. 

Huntingdon.  I  mean,  you — you  chose  him  yourself. 
No  one  forced  you  to  marry  him. 

Clare.  It  does  seem  monstrous,  doesn't  it? 

Huntingdon.  My  dear  child,  do  give  us  a  reason. 

Clare.  Look!  {She  joints  out  at  the  night  and  the 
darkening  towers}  If  George  saw  that  for  the  first  time 
he'd  just  say,  "Ah,  Westminster!  Clock  Tower!  Can 
you  see  the  time  by  it?"  As  if  one  cared  where  or 
what  it  was — beautiful  like  that!  Apply  that  to  every 
— every — everything. 

Huntingdon.  {Staring}  George  may  be  a  bit  prosaic. 
But,  my  dear  old  girl,  if  that's  all 

Clare.  It's  not  all — it's  nothing.  I  can't  explain, 
Reggie — it's  not  reason,  at  all;  it's — it's  like  being 
underground  in  a  damp  cell;  it's  like  knowing  you'll 


18  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

never  get  out.  Nothing  coming — never  anything  com- 
ing again — never  anything. 

Huntingdon.  [Moved  and  puzded]  My  dear  old 
thing;  you  mustn't  get  into  fan  tods  like  this.  If  it's 
like  that,  don't  think  about  it. 

Clare.  When  every  day  and  every  night! —  Oh!  I 
know  it's  my  fault  for  having  married  him,  but  that 
doesn't  help. 

Huntingdon.  Look  here!  It's  not  as  if  George 
wasn't  quite  a  decent  chap.  And  it's  no  use  blinking 
things;  you  are  absolutely  dependent  on  him.  At 
home  they've  got  every  bit  as  much  as  they  can  do  to 
keep  going. 

Clare.  I  know. 

Huntingdon.  And  you've  got  to  think  of  the  girls. 
Any  trouble  would  be  very  beastly  for  them.  And 
the  poor  old  Governor  would  feel  it  awfully. 

Clare.  If  I  didn't  know  all  that,  Reggie,  I  should 
have  gone  home  long  ago. 

Huntingdon.  Well,  what's  to  be  done.'*  If  my  pay 
would  run  to  it — but  it  simply  won't. 

Clare.  Thanks,  old  boy,  of  course  not. 

Huntingdon.  Can't  you  try  to  see  George's  side  of 
it  a  bit.? 

Clare.  I  do.     Oh!  don't  let's  talk  about  it. 

Huntingdon.  Well,  my  child,  there's  just  one  thing 
— ^you  won't  go  sailing  near  the  wind,  will  you.''  I 
mean,  there  are  fellows  always  on  the  lookout. 

Clare.  "That  chap,  Malise,  you'd  better  avoid 
him!"     Why? 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  19 

Huntingdon.  Well!  I  don't  know  him.  He  may 
be  all  right,  but  he's  not  our  sort.  And  you're  too 
pretty  to  go  on  the  tack  of  the  New  Woman  and  that 
kind  of  thing — haven't  been  brought  up  to  it. 

Clake.  British  home-made  summer  goods,  light  and 
attractive — don't  wear  long.  [At  the  sound  of  voices 
in  the  hall]  They  seem  to  be  going,  Reggie. 

[Huntingdon  looks  at  her,  vexed,  unhappy. 
Huntingdon.  Don't    head    for    trouble,    old    girl. 
Take  a  pull.    Bless  you!     Good-night. 

Clare  kisses  him,  and  when  he  has  gone  turns 
away  from  the  door,  holding  herself  in,  refusing 
to  give  rein  to  some  outburst  of  emotion.     Sud- 
denly she  sits  down  at  the  untouched  Bridge 
table,  leaning  her  bare  elbows  on  it  and  her  chin 
on  her  hands,  quite  calm.     Geobge  is  coming 
in.    Pa YNTER /oZZows  him. 
Clare.  Nothing  more  wanted,  thank  you,  Paynter. 
You  can  go  home,  and  the  maids  can  go  to  bed. 
Paynter.  We  are  much  obliged,  ma'am. 
Clare.  I  ran  over  a  dog,  and  had  to  get  it  seen  to. 
Paynter.  Naturally,  ma'am! 
Clare.  Good-night. 

Paynter.  I  couldn't  get  you  a  little  anything, 
ma'am? 

Clare.  No,  thank  you. 

Paynter.  No,  ma'am.     Good-night,  ma'am. 

[He  withdraws. 

George.  You  needn't  have  gone  out  of  your  way  to 

tell  a  lie  that  wouldn't  deceive  a  guinea-pig.  [Going 


20  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

up  to  her]  Pleased  with  yourself  to-night?  [Clare 
shakes  her  head]  Before  that  fellow  Malise;  as  if  our 
own  people  weren't  enough! 

Clare.  Is  it  worth  while  to  rag  me?  I  know  I've 
behaved  badly,  but  I  couldn't  help  it,  really ! 

George.  Couldn't  help  behaving  like  a  shop-girl? 
My  God!    You  were  brought  up  as  well  as  I  was. 

Clare.  Alas! 

George.  To  let  everybody  see  that  we  don't  get  on 
— there's  only  one  word  for  it — Disgusting! 

Clare.  I  know. 

George.  Then  why  do  you  do  it?  I've  always  kept 
my  end  up.  Why  in  heaven's  name  do  you  behave  in 
this  crazy  way? 

Clare.  I'm  sorry. 

George.  [With  intense  feeling]  You  like  making  a 
fool  of  me! 

Clare.  No —  Really!  Only — I  must  break  out 
sometimes. 

George.  There  are  things  one  does  not  do. 

Clare.  I  came  in  because  I  was  sorry. 

George.  And  at  once  began  to  do  it  again!  It 
seems  to  me  you  delight  in  rows. 

Clare.  You'd  miss  your — reconciliations. 

George.  For  God's  sake,  Clare,  drop  cynicism! 

Clare.  And  truth? 

George.  You  are  my  wife,  I  suppose. 

Clare.  And  they  twain  shall  be  one — spirit. 

George.  Don't  talk  wild  nonsense! 

[There  is  silence. 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  21 

Clare.  [Softly]  I  don't  give  satisfaction.  Please  give 
me  notice! 

George.  Pish! 

Clare.  Five  years,  and  four  of  them  like  this!  I'm 
sure  we've  served  our  time.  Don't  you  really  think 
we  might  get  on  better  together — if  I  went  away? 

George.  I've  told  you  I  won't  stand  a  separation 
for  no  real  reason,  and  have  yoiu*  name  bandied  about 
all  over  London.  I  have  some  primitive  sense  of 
honour. 

Clare.  You  mean  your  name,  don't  you.'' 

George.  Look  here.  Did  that  fellow  Malise  put  all 
this  into  yom*  head.'* 

Clare.  No;  my  own  evil  nature. 

George.  I  wish  the  deuce  we'd  never  met  him. 
Comes  of  picking  up  people  you  know  nothing  of.  I 
distrust  him — and  his  looks — and  his  infernal  satiric 
way.  He  can't  even  dress  decently.  He's  not — good 
form. 

Clare.  [With  a  touch  of  rapture]  Ah-h! 

George.  Why  do  you  let  him  come?  What  d'you 
find  interesting  in  him? 

Clare.  A  mind. 

George.  Deuced  funny  one!  To  have  a  mind — as 
you  call  it — it's  not  necessary  to  talk  about  Art  and 
Literature. 

Clare.  We  don't. 

George.  Then  what  do  you  talk  about — your  minds? 
[Clare  looks  at  him]  Will  you  answer  a  straight  ques- 
tion?    Is  he  falling  in  love  with  you? 


22  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

Clare.  You  had  better  ask  him. 

George.  I  tell  you  plainly,  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
I  don't  believe  in  the  guide,  philosopher  and  friend 
business. 

Clare.  Thank  you. 

A  silence.     Clare  suddenly  clasps  her  hands  he- 
hind  her  head. 

Clare.  Let  me  go!  You'd  be  much  happier  with 
any  other  woman. 

George.  Clare! 

Clare.  I  believe — I'm  sure  I  could  earn  my  living. 
Quite  serious. 

George.  Are  you  mad.'' 

Clare.  It  has  been  done. 

George.  It  will  never  be  done  by  you — understand 
that! 

Clare.  It  really  is  time  we  parted.  I'd  go  clean  out 
of  your  life.  I  don't  want  your  support  unless  I'm 
giving  you  something  for  your  money. 

George.  Once  for  all,  I  don't  mean  to  allow  you  to 
make  fools  of  us  both. 

Clare.  But  if  we  are  already!  Look  at  us.  We  go 
on,  and  on.     We're  a  spectacle ! 

George.  That's  not  my  opinion;  nor  the  opinion  of 
anyone,  so  long  as  you  behave  yourself. 

Clare.  That  is — behave  as  you  think  right. 

George.  Clare,  you're  pretty  riling. 

Clare.  I  don't  want  to  be  horrid.  But  I  am  in 
earnest  this  time. 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  2S 

George.  So  am  I. 

[Clare  turns  to  the  curtained  door. 

George.  Look  here!  I'm  sorry.  God  knows  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  brute.     I  know  you're  not  happy. 

Clare.  And  you — are  you  happy.'* 

George.  I  don't  say  I  am.     But  why  can't  we  be? 

Clare.  I  see  no  reason,  except  that  you  are  you, 
and  I  am  I. 

George.  We  can  try. 

Clare.  I  have — haven't  you? 

George.  We  used 

Clare.  I  wonder! 

George.  You  know  we  did. 

Clare.  Too  long  ago — if  ever. 

George  [Coming  closer]  I — still 

Clare.  [Making  a  barrier  of  her  hand]  You  know 
that's  only  cupboard  love. 

George.  We've  got  to  face  the  facts. 

Clare.  I  thought  I  was. 

George.  The  facts  are  that  we're  married — for 
better  or  worse,  and  certain  things  are  expected  of 
us.  It's  suicide  for  you,  and  folly  for  me,  in  my  posi- 
tion, to  ignore  that.  You  have  all  you  can  reasonably 
want;  and  I  don't — don't  wish  for  any  change.  If  you 
could  bring  anything  against  me — if  I  drank,  or 
knocked  about  town,  or  expected  too  much  of  you. 
I'm  not  unreasonable  in  any  way,  that  I  can  see. 

Clare.  Well,  I  think  we've  talked  enough. 

[She  again  moves  towards  the  curtained  door. 

George.  Look  here,  Clare;  you  don't  mean  you're 


24  THE  FUGITIVE  act  i 

expecting  me  to  put  up  with  the  position  of  a  man 
who's  neither  married  nor  unmarried?  That's  simple 
purgatory.  You  ought  to  know. 
Clare.  Yes.  I  haven't  yet,  have  I.'* 
George.  Don't  go  like  that !  Do  you  suppose  we're 
the  only  couple  who've  found  things  aren't  what  they 
thought,  and  have  to  put  up  with  each  other  and  make 
the  best  of  it. 

Clare.  Not  by  thousands. 
George.  Well,  why  do  you  imagine  they  do  it? 
Clare.  I  don't  know. 

George.  From  a  common  sense  of  decency. 
Clare.  Very! 

George.  By  Jove!  You  can  be  the  most  maddening 
thing  in  all  the  world!  [Taking  up  a  pack  of  cards,  he 
lets  them  fall  with  a  long  slithering  flviter]  After  behaving 
as  you  have  this  evening,  you  might  try  to  make  some 
amends,  I  should  think. 

Clare  moves  her  head  from  side  to  side,  as  if  in 
sight  of  something  she  coidd  not  avoid.     He 
puts  his  hand  on  her  arm. 
Clare.  No,  no — no! 

George.  [Dropping  his  hand]  Can't  you  make  it  up? 
Clare.  I  don't  feel  very  Christian. 

She  opens  the  door,  passes  through,  and  closes  it 
behind  her.  George  steps  quickly  towards  it, 
stops,  and  turns  back  into  the  room.  He  goes 
to  the  vnndow  and  stands  looking  out ;  shuts  it 
with  a  bang,  and  again  contemplates  the  door. 
Moving  forward,  he  rests  his  hand  on  the  de- 


ACT  I  THE  FUGITIVE  25 

serted  card  table,  clutching  its  edge,  and  mut- 
tering. Then  he  crosses  to  the  door  into  the  hall 
and  switches  off  the  light.  He  opens  the  door  to 
go  out,  then  stands  again  irresolvte  in  the  dark- 
ness and  heaves  a  heavy  sigh.  Suddenly  he  mut- 
ters: "No!"  Crosses  resolutely  back  to  the 
curtained  door,  and  opens  it.  In  the  gleam  of 
light  Clare  is  standing,  unhooking  a  necklet. 
He  goes  in,  shutting  the  door  behind  him  vnth  a 
thud. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT    II 

The  Scene  is  a  large,  whitewashed,  disordered  room, 
whose  outer  door  opens  on  to  a  corridor  and  stairway. 
Doors  on  either  side  lead  to  other  rooms.  On  tJie 
walls  are  unframed  reproductions  of  fine  pictures, 
secured  with  tintachs.  An  old  wine-coloured  arm- 
chair of  low  and  comfortable  appearance,  near  the 
centre  of  the  room,  is  surrounded  by  a  litter  of  manu- 
scripts, books,  ink,  pens  and  newspapers,  as  though 
some  one  had  already  been  up  to  his  neck  in  labour, 
though  by  a  grandfather's  clock  it  is  only  eleven. 
On  a  smallish  table  close  by,  are  sheets  of  paper, 
cigarette  ends,  and  two  claret  bottles.  There  are 
many  books  on  shelves,  and  on  the  floor,  an  over- 
flowing pile,  whereon  rests  a  soft  hat,  and  a  black 
knobby  stick.  Malise  sits  in  his  armchair,  garbed 
in  trousers,  dressing-gown,  and  slippers,  unshaved 
and  uncollared,  writing.  He  pauses,  smiles,  lights 
a  cigarette,  and  tries  the  rhythm  of  the  last  sentence, 
holding  up  a  sheet  of  quarto  MS. 

Malise.  "Not  a  word,  not  a  whisper  of  Liberty  from 
all  those  excellent  frock-coated  gentlemen — not  a  sign, 
not  a  grimace.  Only  the  monumental  silence  of  their 
profound  deference  before  triumphant  Tyranny." 

While  he  speaks,  a  substantial  woman,  a  little 
over  middle-age,  in  old  dark  clothes  and  a  black 
27 


28  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

straw  hat,  enters  from  the  corridor.  She  goes 
to  a  cupboard,  brings  out  from  it  an  apron  and 
a  Bissell  broom.  Her  movements  are  slow  and 
imperturbable,  as  if  she  had  much  time  before 
her.  Her  face  is  broad  and  dark,  wiih  Chinese 
eyebrows. 
Malise.  Wait,  Mrs.  Miler! 
Mrs.  Miler.  I'm  gettin'  be'ind'and,  sir. 

She    comes    and    stands    before    him.    Malise 
writes. 
Mrs.  Miler.  There's  a  man  'angin'  about  below. 
Malise  looks  up  ;  seeing  that  she  has  roused  his 
attention,  she  stops.     But  as  soon  as  he  is  about 
to  write  again,  goes  on. 
Mrs.  Miler.  I  see  him  first  yesterday  afternoon. 
I'd  just  been  out  to  get  meself  a  pennyworth  o'  soda,  an' 
as  I  come  in  I  passed  'im  on  the  second  floor,  lookin'  at 
me  with  an  air  of  suspicion.     I  thought  to  meself  at  the 
time,  I  thought:  You're  a  'andy  sort  of  'ang-dog  man. 
Malise.  Well.? 

Mrs.  Miler.  Well — peekin'  down  through  the  bal- 
usters, I  see  'im  lookin'  at  a  photograft.  That's  a 
funny  place,  I  thinks,  to  look  at  pictures — it's  so  dark 
there,  ye  'ave  to  use  yer  eyesight.  So  I  giv'  a  scrape 
with  me  'eel  [She  illustrates]  an'  he  pops  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  puts  up  'is  'and  to  knock  at  number  three. 
I  goes  down  an'  I  says:  "You  know  there's  no  one  lives 
there,  don't  yer?"  "Ah!"  'e  says  with  an  air  of  inner- 
cence,  "I  wants  the  name  of  Smithers."  "Oh!"  I  says, 
"try  roimd  the  corner,  number  ten."     "Ah!"  'e  says. 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  29 

tactful,  "much  obliged."  "Yes,"  I  says,  "you'll  find 
'im  in  at  this  time  o'  day.  Good  evenin'!"  And  I 
thinks  to  meself  [She  closes  one  eye]  Rats!  There's  a 
good  many  corners  hereabouts. 

Malise.  [With  detached  appreciation]  Very  good, 
Mrs.  Miler. 

Mbs.  Mileb.  So  this  mornin',  there  e'  was  again  on 
the  first  floor  with  'is  'and  raised,  pretendin'  to  knock 
at  number  two.  "Oh!  you're  still  lookin'  for  'im?"  I 
says,  lettin'  him  see  I  was  'is  grandmother.  "Ah!"  'e 
says,  afifable,  "you  misdirected  me;  it's  here  I've  got 
my  business."  "That's  lucky,"  I  says,  "cos  nobody 
lives  there  neither.  Good  mornin'!"  And  I  come 
straight  up.  If  you  want  to  see  'im  at  work  you've 
only  to  go  downstairs,  'e'll  be  on  the  ground  floor  by 
now,  pretendin'  to  knock  at  number  one.  Wonderful 
resource! 

Malise.  What's  he  like,  this  gentleman? 

Mrs.  Miler.  Just  like  the  men  you  see  on  the  front 
page  o'  the  daily  papers.  Nasty,  smooth-lookin'  feller, 
with  one  o'  them  billycock  hats  you  can't  abide. 

Malise.  Isn't  he  a  dun? 

Mrs.  Miler.  They  don't  be'ave  like  that;  you  ought 
to  know,  sir.  He's  after  no  good.  [Then,  after  a  little 
pause]  Ain't  he  to  be  put  a  stop  to?  If  I  took  me  time 
I  could  get  'im,  innercent-like,  with  a  jug  o'  water. 

[Malise,  smiling,  shakes  his  head. 

Malise.  You  can  get  on  now;  I'm  going  to  shave. 
He  looks  at  the  clock,  and  passes  out  into  the  inner 
room.    Mrs.  Miler  gazes  round  her,  pins  up 


30  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

her  skirt,  sits  down  in  the  armchair,  takes  off 
her  hat  and  -puts  it  on  the  table,  and  slowly  rolls 
up  her  sleeves ;  then  wiih  her  hands  on  her  knees 
she  rests.     There  is  a  soft  knock  on  the  door. 
She  gets  up  leisurely  and  moves  flat-footed  to- 
wards it.    The  door  being  opened  Clahe  is 
revealed. 
Clare.  Is  Mr.  Malise  in.'' 
Mrs.  Miler.  Yes.    But  'e's  dressin*. 
Clare.  Oh. 

Mrs.  Miler.  Won't  take  'im  long.     What  name.'' 
Clare.  Would  you  say — a  lady. 
Mrs.  Miler.  It's  against  the  rules.     But  if  you'll 
sit  down  a  moment  I'll  see  what  I  can  do.     [She  brings 
forward  a  chair  and  rubs  it  ivith  her  apron.     Then  goes 
to  the  door  of  the  inner  room  and  speaks  through  it]  A 
lady  to  see  you.  [Returning  she  removes  some  cigarette 
ends]  This  is  my  hour.     I  shan't  make  much  dust. 
[Noting  Clare's  eyebrows  raised  at  the  dSbris  round  the 
armchair]  I'm  particular  about  not  disturbin'  things. 
Clare.  I'm  sure  you  are. 
Mrs.  Miler.  He  likes  'is  'abits  regular. 

Making  a  perfunctory  pass  with  the  Bissell  broom, 
she  runs  it  to  the  cupboard,  comes  back  to  the 
table,  takes  up  a  bottle  and  holds  it  to  the  light; 
finding  it  empty,  she  turns  it  upside  down  and 
drops  it  into  the  wastepaper  basket;  then,  hold- 
ing up  the  other  bottle,  and  finding  it  not  empty, 
she  corks  it  and  drops  it  into  the  fold  of  her 
skirt. 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  31 

Mrs.  Miler.  He  takes  his  claret  fresh-opened — ^not 
like  these  'ere  bawgwars. 

Clare.  [Rising]  I  think  I'll  come  back  later. 
Mrs.  Miler.  Mr.  Malise  is  not  in  my  confidence. 
We  keep  each  other  to  ourselves.     Perhaps  you'd  like 
to  read  the  paper;  he  has  it  fresh  every  mornin' — the 
Westminister. 

She  plucks  that  journal  from  out  of  the  armchair 

and  hands  it  to  Clare,  who  sits  dovm  again 

unhappily  to  brood.     Mrs.  Miler  makes  a 

pass  or  two  wiih  a  very  dirty  duster,  then  stands 

still.   No  longer  hearing  sounds,  Clare  looks  up. 

Mrs.  Miler.  I   wouldn't    interrupt   yer   with   my 

workin,'  but  'e  likes  things  clean.    [At  a  sound  from  the 

inner  room]  That's  'im;  'e's  cut  'isself!    I'll  just  take 

'im  the  tobaccer! 

She  lifts  a  green  paper  screw  of  tobacco  from  the 

dSbris  round  the  armchair  and  taps  on  the  door. 

It  opens.     Clare  moves  restlessly  across   the 

room. 

Mrs.  Miler.  [Speaking  into  the  room\  The  tobaccer. 

The  lady's  waitin'. 

Clare  has  stopped  before  a  reproduction  of 
Titian's  picture  "Sacred  and  Profane  Love." 
Mrs.  Miler  stands  regarding  her  with  a  Chi- 
nese smile.  Malise  enters,  a  thread  of  to- 
bacco still  hanging  to  his  cheek. 
Malise.  [Taking  Mrs.  Miler's  hat  off  the  table  and 
handing  it  to  her]  Do  the  other  room. 

[Enigmatically  she  goes. 
Malise.  Jolly  of  you  to  come.     Can  I  do  anything.'* 


32  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

Clare.  I  want  advice — badly. 

Malise.  What!    Spreading  your  wings? 

Clare.  Yes. 

Malise.  Ah!  Proud  to  have  given  you  that  advice. 
When? 

Clare.  The  morning  after  you  gave  it  me  .  .  . 

Malise.  Well? 

Clare.  I  went  down  to  my  people.  I  knew  it  would 
hurt  my  Dad  frightfully,  but  somehow  I  thought  I 
could  make  him  see.  No  good.  He  was  awfully  sweet, 
only — he  couldn't. 

Malise.  [Softly]  We  English  love  liberty  in  those 
who  don't  belong  to  us.     Yes. 

Clare.  It  was  horrible.  There  were  the  children — 
and  my  old  nurse.     I  could  never  live  at  home  now. 

They'd   think  I  was .     Impossible — utterly!    I'd 

made  up  my  mind  to  go  back  to  my  owner —  And  then 
— he  came  down  himself.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  To  be 
hauled  back  and  begin  all  over  again;  I  simply  couldn't. 
I  watched  for  a  chance;  and  ran  to  the  station,  and 
came  up  to  an  hotel. 

Malise.  Bravo! 

Clare.  I  don't  know — no  pluck  this  morning!  You 
see,  I've  got  to  earn  my  living — no  money;  only  a  few 
things  I  can  sell.  All  yesterday  I  was  walking  about, 
looking  at  the  women.  How  does  anyone  ever  get  a 
chance? 

Malise.  Sooner  than  you  should  hurt  his  dignity 
by  working,  your  husband  would  jiension  you  off. 

Clare.  If  I  don't  go  back  to  him  I  couldn't  take  it. 

Malise.  Good! 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  33 

Clabe.  I've  thought  of  nursing,  but  it's  a  long  train- 
ing, and  I  do  so  hate  watching  pain.  The  fact  is,  I'm 
pretty  hopeless;  can't  even  do  art  work.  I  came  to 
ask  you  about  the  stage. 

Malise.  Have  you  ever  acted.?  [Clabe  shakes  her 
head]  You  mightn't  think  so,  but  I've  heard  there's  a 
prejudice  in  favour  of  training.  There's  Chorus — I 
don't  recommend  it.    How  about  your  brother? 

Clare.  My  brother's  got  nothing  to  spare,  and  he 
wants  to  get  married;  and  he's  going  back  to  India  in 
September.  The  only  friend  I  should  care  to  bother  is 
Mrs.  FuUarton,  and  she's — got  a  husband. 

Malise.  I  remember  the  gentleman. 

Clake.  Besides,  I  should  be  besieged  day  and  night 
to  go  back.     I  must  lie  doggo  somehow. 

Malise.  It  makes  my  blood  boil  to  think  of  women 
like  you.    God  help  all  ladies  without  money. 

Clare.  I  expect  I  shall  have  to  go  back. 

Malise.  No,  no!  We  shall  find  something.  Keep 
your  soul  alive  at  all  costs.  What !  let  him  hang  on  to 
you  till  you're  nothing  but — emptiness  and  ache,  till 
you  lose  even  the  power  to  ache.  Sit  in  his  drawing- 
room,  pay  calls,  play  Bridge,  go  out  with  him  to  din- 
ners, return  to — duty;  and  feel  less  and  less,  and  be  less 
and  less,  and  so  grow  old  and — die! 

[The  hell  rings. 

Malise.  [Looking  at  the  door  in  doubt]  By  the  way — 
he'd  no  means  of  tracing  you? 

[Sfie  shakes  her  head. 
[The  bell  rings  again. 


34  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

Malise.  Was  there  a  man  on  the  stairs  as  you 
came  up? 

Clare.  Yes.    Why? 

Malise.  He's  begun  to  haunt  them,  I'm  told. 
Clare.  Oh!    But  that  would  mean  they  thought  I 
— oh!  no! 
Malise.  Confidence  in  Tree  is  not  excessive. 
Clare.  Spying! 

Malise.  Will  you  go  in  there  for  a  minute?  Or 
shall  we  let  them  ring — or — what?  It  may  not  be 
anything,  of  course. 

Clare.  I'm  not  going  to  hide. 

[The  bell  rings  a  third  time. 
Malise.  [Opening  the  door  of  the  inner  room]  Mrs. 
Miler,  just  see  who  it  is;  and  then  go,  for  the  present. 
Mrs.  Miler  comes  out  with  her  hat  on,  passes 
enigmatically  to  the  door,   and  opens  it.     A 
man's  voice  says:  "Mr.  Malise?    Would  you 
give  him  these  cards?" 
Mrs.  Miler.  [Re-entering]  The  cards. 
Malise.  Mr.    Robert    Twisden.     Sir    Charles    and 
Lady  Dedmond.  [He  looks  at  Clare. 

Clare.  [Her  face  scornful  and  unmoved]  Let  them 
come. 

Malise.  [To  Mrs.  Miler]  Show  them  in! 

Twisden  enters — a  clean-shaved,  shrewd-looking 
man,  with  a  fighting  underlip,  followed  by  Sir 
Charles  and  Lady  Dedmond.  Mrs.  Miler 
goes.     There  are  no  greetings. 


ACT  II  THE  FUGITIVE  35 

TwiSDEN.  Mr.  Malise?  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Ded- 
mond?  Had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  your  wed- 
ding. [Clare  inclines  her  head]  I  am  Mr.  George  Ded- 
mond's  solicitor,  sir.  I  wonder  if  you  would  be  so  very 
kind  as  to  let  us  have  a  few  words  with  Mrs.  Dedmond 
alone? 

At  a  nod  from  Clare,  Malise  passes  into  the 
inner  room,  and  shuts  the  door.     A  silence. 

Sir  Charles.  [Suddenly]  What! 

Lady  Dedmond.  Mr.  Twisden,  will  you .'' 

TwiSDEN.  [Uneasy]  Mrs.  Dedmond 1  must  apol- 
ogize, but  you — you  hardly  gave  us  an  alternative,  did 
you.''  [He  pauses  for  an  answer,  and,  not  getting  one, 
goes  on]  Your  disappearance  has  given  your  husband 
great  anxiety.  Really,  my  dear  madam,  you  must  for- 
give us  for  this — attempt  to  get  into  communication. 

Clare.  Why  did  you  spy  .tere? 

Sir  Charles.  No,  no!  Nobody's  spied  on  you. 
What! 

Twisden.  I'm  afraid  the  answer  is  that  we  appear 
to  have  been  justified.  [At  the  expression  on  Clare's 
face  he  goes  on  hastily]  Now,  Mrs.  Dedmond,  I'm  a 
lawyer  and  I  know  that  appearances  are  misleading. 
Don't  think  I'm  unfriendly;  I  wish  you  well.  [Clare 
raises  her  eyes.  Moved  by  that  look,  which  is  exactly  as 
if  she  had  said:  "Z  have  no  friends,"  he  hurries  on]  WTiat 
we  want  to  say  to  you  is  this :  Don't  let  this  split  go  on ! 
Don't  commit  yourself  to  what  you'll  bitterly  regret. 
Just  tell  us  what's  the  matter.  I'm  sure  it  can  be  put 
straight. 


36  THE  FUGITIVE  act  ii 

Clare.  I  have  nothing  against  my  husband — it  was 
quite  unreasonable  to  leave  him. 

TwisDEN.  Come,  that's  good. 

Clare.  Unfortunately,  there's  something  stronger 
than  reason. 

TwisDEN.  I  don't  know  it,  Mrs.  Dedmond. 

Clare.  No? 

TwiSDEN.  [Disconcerted]  Are  you — you  oughtn't  to 
take  a  step  without  advice,  in  your  position. 

Clare.  Nor  with  it? 

TwiSDEN.  [Approaching  her]  Come,  now;  isn't  there 
anything  you  feel  you'd  like  to  say — that  might  help 
to  put  matters  straight? 

Clare.  I  don't  think  so,  thank  you. 

Lady  Dedmond.  You  must  see,  Clare,  that 

TwiSDEN.  In  your  position,  Mrs.  Dedmond — a  beau- 
tiful young  woman  without  money.  I'm  quite  blimt. 
This  is  a  hard  world.  Should  be  awfully  sorry  if  any- 
thing goes  wrong. 

Clare.  And  if  I  go  back? 

TwiSDEN.  Of  two  evils,  if  it  be  so — choose  the  least! 

Clare.  I  am  twenty-six;  he  is  thirty-two.  We  can't 
reasonably  expect  to  die  for  fifty  years. 

Lady  Dedmond.  That's  morbid,  Clare. 

TwiSDEN.  What's  open  to  you  if  you  don't  go  back  ? 
Come,  what's  your  position?  Neither  fiish,  flesh,  nor 
fowl;  fair  game  for  everybody.  Believe  me,  Mrs. 
Dedmond,  for  a  pretty  woman  to  strike,  as  it  appears 
you're  doing,  simply  because  the  spirit  of  her  marriage 
has  taken  flight,  is  madness.     You  must  know  that  no 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  37 

one  pays  attention  to  anything  but  facts.  If  now — 
excuse  me — you — you  had  a  lover,  [His  eyes  travel 
round  the  room  and  again  rest  on  her]  you  would,  at  all 
events,  have  some  ground  under  your  feet,  some  sort 
of  protection,  but  [He  pauses]  as  you  have  not — you've 
none. 

Clare.  Except  what  I  make  myself. 

Sir  Charles.  Good  God! 

TwiSDEN.  Yes!  Mrs.  Dedmond!  There's  the  bed- 
rock difficulty.  As  you  haven't  money,  you  should 
never  have  been  pretty.  You're  up  against  the  world, 
and  you'll  get  no  mercy  from  it.  We  lawyers  see  too 
much  of  that.  I'm  putting  it  brutally,  as  a  man  of  the 
world. 

Clare.  Thank  you.  Do  you  think  you  quite  grasp 
the  alternative? 

TwiSDEN.  [Taken  aback]  But,  my  dear  yoimg  lady, 
there  are  two  sides  to  every  contract.  After  all,  your 
husband's  fulfilled  his. 

Clare.  So  have  I  up  till  now.  I  shan't  ask  any- 
thing from  him — nothing — do  you  understand.'' 

Lady  Dedmond.  But,  my  dear,  you  must  live. 

TwiSDEN.  Have  you  ever  done  any  sort  of  work.? 

Clare.  Not  yet. 

TwiSDEN.  Any  conception  of  the  competition  now- 
adays? 

Clare.  I  can  try. 

[TwiSDEN,  looking  at  her,  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

Clare.  [Her  composure  a  little  broken  by  thai  look] 
It's  real  to  me — this — ^you  see! 


38  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

Sir  Charles.  But,  my  dear  girl,  what  the  devil's  to 
become  of  George? 

Clare.  He  can  do  what  he  likes — it's  nothing  to  me. 

TwiSDEN.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  I  say  without  hesitation 
you've  no  notion  of  what  you're  faced  with,  brought 
up  to  a  sheltered  life  as  you've  been.  Do  realize  that 
you  stand  at  the  parting  of  the  ways,  and  one  leads 
into  the  wilderness. 

Clare.  Which  .^ 

TwisDEN.  [Glancing  at  the  door  through  which  Malise 
has  gone]  Of  course,  if  you  want  to  play  at  wild  asses 
there  are  plenty  who  will  help  you. 

Sir  Charles.    By  Gad!    Yes! 

Clare.  I  only  want  to  breathe. 

TwiSDEN.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  go  back!  You  can  now. 
It  will  be  too  late  soon.     There  are  lots  of  wolves  about. 

[Again  he  looks  at  the  door. 

Clabe.  But  not  where  you  think.  You  say  I  need 
advice.     I  came  here  for  it. 

TwiSDEN.  [With  a  curiously  expressive  shrug]  In  that 
case  I  don't  know  that  I  can  usefully  stay. 

[He  goes  to  the  outer  door. 

Clare.  Please  don't  have  me  followed  when  I  leave 
here.     Please! 

Lady  Dedmond.  George  is  outside,  Clare. 

Clare.  I  don't  wish  to  see  him.  By  what  right 
have  you  come  here.''  [She  goes  to  the  door  through  which 
Malise  has  passed,  opens  it,  and  says]  Please  come  in, 
Mr.  Malise. 

Malise  enters. 


ACT  n  THE   FUGITIVE  89 

TwisDEN.  I  am  sorry.  [Glancing  at  Malise,  he  in- 
clines his  head]  I  am  sorry.     Good  morning.     [He  goes. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Mr.  Malise,  I'm  sure,  will  see 

CiiARE.  Mr.  Malise  will  stay  here,  please,  in  his  own 
room.  [Malise  hows. 

Sir  Charles.  My  dear  girl,  'pon  my  soul,  you  know, 
I  can't  grasp  your  line  of  thought  at  all ! 

Clare.  No? 

Lady  Dedmond.  George  is  most  willing  to  take  up 
things  just  as  they  were  before  you  left. 

Clare.  Ah! 

Lady  Dedmond.  Quite  frankly — what  is  it  you 
want.'' 

Clare.  To  be  left  alone.  Quite  frankly,  he  made  a 
mistake  to  have  me  spied  on. 

Lady  Dedmond.  But,  my  good  girl,  if  you'd  let  us 
know  where  you  were,  like  a  reasonable  being.  You 
can't  possibly  be  left  to  yourself  without  money  or 
position  of  any  kind.  Heaven  knows  what  you'd  be 
driven  to!  [She  looks  at  Malise. 

Malise.  [Softly]  Delicious! 

Sir  Charles.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  repeat 
that  out  loud,  sir. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Charles!  Clare,  you  must  know 
this  is  all  a  fit  of  spleen;  your  duty  and  your  interest 
— marriage  is  sacred,  Clare. 

Clare.  Marriage!  My  marriage  has  become  the — 
the  reconciliation — of  two  animals — one  of  them  un- 
willing.   That's  all  the  sanctity  there  is  about  it. 

Sir  Charles.  What! 


40  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

Lady  Dedmond.  You  ought  to  be  horribly  ashamed. 

Clare.  Of  the  fact — I  am. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [Darting  a  glance  at  Mause]  If  we 
are  to  talk  this  out,  it  must  be  in  private. 

Mause.  [To  Clare]  Do  you  wish  me  to  go? 

Clare.  No. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [At  Malise]  I  should  have  thought 

ordinary    decent    feeling Good    heavens,    girl! 

Can't  you  see  that  you're  being  played  with.'' 

Clare.  If  you  insinuate  anything  against  Mr.  Ma- 
lise, you  lie. 

Lady  Dedmond.  If  you  uoUl  do  these  things — come 
to  a  man's  rooms 

Clare.  I  came  to  Mr.  Malise  because  he's  the  only 
person  I  know  with  imagination  enough  to  see  what 
my  position  is;  I  came  to  him  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago, 
for  the  first  time,  for  definite  advice,  and  you  instantly 
suspect  him.     That  is  disgusting. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [Frigidly]  Is  this  the  natural  place 
for  me  to  find  my  son's  wife? 

Clare.  His  woman. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Will  you  listen  to  Reginald? 

Clare.  I  have. 

Lady  Dedmond.  Haven't  you  any  religious  sense  at 
all,  Clare? 

Clare.  None,  if  it's  religion  to  live  as  we  do. 

Lady  Dedmond.  It's  terrible — this  state  of  mind! 
It's  really  terrible! 

Clare  breaks  into  the  soft  laugh  of  the  other  eve- 
ning.   As   if  galvanized   by   the   sound.  Sib 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  41 

Charles  comes  to  life  out  of  the  transfixed 
bevnlderment  with  which  he  has  been  listening. 

Sm  Charles.  For  God's  sake  don't  laugh  like  that! 

[Clare  stops. 

Lady  Dedmond.  [With  real  feeling]  For  the  sake  of 
the  simple  right,  Clare ! 

Clare.  Right.''  Whatever  else  is  right — our  life  is 
not.  [She  -puts  her  hand  on  her  heart]  I  swear  before 
God  that  I've  tried  and  tried.  I  swear  before  God, 
that  if  I  believed  we  could  ever  again  love  each  other 
only  a  little  tiny  bit,  I'd  go  back.  I  swear  before  God 
that  I  don't  want  to  hurt  anybody. 

Lady  Dedmond.  But  you  are  hurting  everybody. 
Do — do  be  reasonable! 

Clare.  [Losing  control]  Can't  you  see  that  I'm 
fighting  for  all  my  life  to  come — not  to  be  buried  alive 
— not  to  be  slowly  smothered.  Look  at  me!  I'm  not 
wax — I'm  flesh  and  blood.  And  you  want  to  prison 
me  for  ever — body  and  soul. 

[They  stare  at  her. 

SiH  Charles.  [Suddenly]  By  Jove!  I  don't  know, 
I  don't  know!    What! 

Lady  Dedmond.  [To  Malise]  If  you  have  any  de- 
cency left,  sir,  you  will  allow  my  son,  at  all  events,  to 
speak  to  his  wife  alone.  [Beckoning  to  her  husband] 
We'll  wait  below. 

Sir  Charles.  I — I  want  to  speak.  [To  Clare]  My 
dear,  if  you  feel  like  this,  I  can  only  say  as  a — as  a 
gentleman 

Lady  Dedmond.  Charles! 


42  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

Sir  Charles.  Let  me  alone!  I  can  only  say  that 
— damme,  I  don't  know  that  I  can  say  anything! 

He    looks    at  her  very  grieved,  then  turns  and 

marches    aid,  followed    by    Lady    Dedmond, 

whose  voice  is  heard  without,  answered  by  his: 

"What!"     In    the    doorway,    as    they    pass, 

George  is  standing;  he  comes  in. 

George.  [Going  up  to  Clare,  who  has  recovered  all 

her  self-control]  Will  you  come  outside  and  speak  to  me.'* 

Clare.  No. 

George   glances   at   Malise,    who   is   leaning 
against  the  wall  with  folded  arms. 
George.  {In  a  low  voice]  Clare! 
Clare.  Well! 

George.  You  try  me  pretty  high,  don't  you,  forcing 
me  to  come  here,  and  speak  before  this  fellow?  Most 
men  would  think  the  worst,  finding  you  like  this. 

Clare.  You  need  not  have  come — or  thought  at  all. 
George.  Did  you  imagine  I  was  going  to  let  you 

vanish  without  an  effort 

Clare.  To  save  me? 

George.  For  God's  sake  be  just!    I've  come  here 
to  say  certain  things.     If  you  force  me  to  say  them 
before  him — on  your  head  be  it!    Will  you  appoint 
somewhere  else? 
Clare.  No. 
George.  Why  not? 

Clare.  I  know  all  those  "certain  things."  "You 
must  come  back.  It  is  your  duty.  You  have  no 
money.    Yovu*  friends  won't  help  you.     You  can't  earn 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  43 

your  living.  You  are  making  a  scandal."  You  might 
even  say  for  the  moment:  "Your  room  shall  be  re- 
spected." 

George.  Well,  it's  true  and  you've  no  answer. 

Clabe.  Oh!  [Suddenly]  Our  life's  a  lie.  It's  stu- 
pid; it's  disgusting.  I'm  tired  of  it!  Please  leave  me 
alone! 

George.  You  rather  miss  the  point,  I'm  afraid.  I 
didn't  come  here  to  tell  you  what  you  know  perfectly 
well  when  you're  sane.  I  came  here  to  say  this :  Any- 
one in  her  senses  could  see  the  game  your  friend  here 
is  playing.  It  wouldn't  take  a  baby  in.  If  you  think 
that  a  gentleman  like  that  [His  stare  travels  round  the 
dishevelled  room  till  it  rests  on  Malise]  champions  a 
pretty  woman  for  nothing,  you  make  a  fairly  bad  mis- 
take. 

Clare.  Take  care. 

But  Mause,  after  one  convulsive  movement  of 
his  hands,  has  again  become  rigid. 

George.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  subtle  or  that  kind 
of  thing;  but  I  have  ordinary  common  sense.  I  don't 
attempt  to  be  superior  to  plain  facts 

Clare.  [Under  her  breath]  Facts! 

George.  Oh!  for  goodness'  sake  drop  that  hifalutin' 
tone.  It  doesn't  suit  you.  Look  here!  If  you  like 
to  go  abroad  with  one  of  your  young  sisters  imtil  the 
autumn,  I'll  let  the  flat  and  go  to  the  Club. 

Clare.  Put  the  fire  out  with  a  penny  hose.  [Slowly] 
I  am  not  coming  back  to  you,  George.  The  farce  is 
over. 


44  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

George.  {Taken  aback  for  a  moment  by  the  finality 
of  her  tone,  suddenly  fronts  Malise]  Then  there  is 
something  between  you  and  this  fellow. 

Malise.  [Dangerously,  but  without  moving]  I  beg 
your  pardon ! 

Clare.  There — is — nothing. 

George  [Looking  from  one  to  the  otJier]  At  all  events, 
I  won't — I  won't  see  a  woman  who  once —  [Clare 
makes  a  sudden  effacing  movement  with  her  hands]  I 
won't  see  her  go  to  certain  ruin  without  lifting  a  finger. 

Clare.  That  is  noble. 

George.  [With  intensity]  I  don't  know  that  you  de- 
serve anything  of  me.  But  on  my  honour,  as  a  gen- 
tleman, I  came  here  this  morning  for  your  sake,  to 
warn  you  of  what  you're  doing.  [He  turns  suddenly  on 
Malise]  And  I  tell  this  precious  friend  of  yours  plainly 
what  I  think  of  him,  and  that  I'm  not  going  to  play 
into  his  hands. 

Malise,  without  stirring  from  tlie  wall,  looks  at 
Clare,  and  his  lips  move. 

Clare.  [Shakes  her  head  at  him — then  to  George] 
"Will  you  go,  please.'' 

George.  I  will  go  when  you  do. 

Malise.  A  man  of  the  world  should  know  better 
than  that. 

George.  Are  you  coming? 

Malise.  That  is  inconceivable. 

George.  I'm  not  speaking  to  you,  sir. 

Malise.  You  are  right.  Your  words  and  mine  will 
never  kiss  each  other. 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  45 

George.  Will  you  come?    [Clare  shakes  her  head. 
George.  [With  fury]  D'you  mean  to  stay  in  this 
pigsty  with  that  rhapsodical  swine? 

Malise.  [Transformed]  By  God,  if  you  don't  go,  I'll 
kill  you. 

George.  [As  suddenly  calm]  That  remains  to  be 
seen. 

Malise.  [With  most  deadly  quietness]  Yes,  I  will  kill 
you. 

He  goes  stealthily  along  the  wall,  takes  up  from 

where  it  lies  on  the  pile  of  books  the  great  Mack 

knobby  stick,  and  stealthily  approaches  George, 

his  face  quite  fiendish. 

Clare.  [With  a  swift  movement,  grasping  the  stick] 

Please. 

Malise  resigns  the  stick,  and  the  two  men,  per- 
fectly still,  glare  at  each  other.     Clare,  letting 
the  stick  fall,  puts  her  foot  on  it.     Then  slowly 
she  takes  off  her  hat  and  lays  it  on  the  table. 
Clare.  Now  will  you  go!  [There  is  silence. 

George.  [Staring  at  her  hat]  You  mad  little  fool! 
Understand  this;  if  you've  not  returned  home  by  three 
o'clock  I'll  divorce  you,  and  you  may  roll  in  the  gutter 
with  this  high-souled  friend  of  yours.  And  mind  this, 
you  sir — I  won't  spare  you — by  God!  Your  pocket 
shall  suffer.  That's  the  only  thing  that  touches  fel- 
lows like  you. 

Turning,  he  goes  out,  and  slams  the  door.  Clare 
and  Malise  remain  face  to  face.  Her  lips 
have  begun  to  quiver. 


46  THE  FUGITIVE  act  n 

CliAKE.  Horrible! 

She  turns  away,  shuddering,  and  sits  down  on 
the  edge   of  the   armchair,   covering   her  eyes 
with  the  hades  of  her  hands.     Malise  pichs 
up  the  stick,   and  fingers  it  lovingly.     Then 
jniMing  it  down,  he  moves  so  that  he  can  see 
her  face.     She   is   sitting   quite   still,   staring 
straight  before  her. 
Malise.  Nothing  could  be  better. 
Clare.  I  don't  know  what  to  do!    I  don't  know 
what  to  do! 

Malise.  Thank  the  stars  for  your  good  fortune. 
Clare.  He  means  to  have  revenge  on  you!    And 
it's  all  my  fault. 

Malise.  Let  him.     Let  him  go  for  his  divorce.     Get 
rid  of  him.     Have  done  with  him — somehow. 

She  gets  up  and  stands  ivith  face  averted.     Then 
swiftly  turning  to  him. 
Clare.  If  I  must  bring  you  harm — let  me  pay  you 
back!    I  can't  bear  it  otherwise!    Make  some  use  of 
me,  if  you  don't  mind! 
Malise.  My  God! 

[She  puts  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  shutting  her  eyes. 

Malise.  You  poor 

He  clasps  and  kisses  her,  then,  drawing  back,  looks 

in  her  face.     She  has  not  moved,  her  eyes  are 

still  closed;  but  she  is  shivering;  her  lips  are 

tightly  pressed  together;  her  hands  twitching. 

Malise.  [Very   quietly]  No,   no!    This   is   not   the 

house  of  a  "gentleman." 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  47 

Clabe.  [Letting  her  head  fall,  and  almost  in  a  whisper] 
I'm  sorry. 

Malise.  I  understand. 

Clare.  I  don't  feel.    And  without — I  can't,  can't. 
Malise.  [Bitterly]  Quite  right.     You've  had  enough 
of  that. 

There  is  a  long  silence.     Without  looking  at  him 
she  takes  up  her  hat,  and  puis  it  on. 
Mamse.  Not  going?  [Clare  nods. 

Malise.  You  don't  trust  me? 

Clare.  Idol    But  I  can't  take  when  I'm  not  giving. 
Malise.  I  beg — I  beg  you!    What  does  it  matter? 
Use  me!    Get  free  somehow. 

Clare.  Mr.  Malise,  I  know  what  I  ought  to  be  to 
you,  if  I  let  you  in  for  all  this.  I  know  what  you 
want — or  will  want.     Of  course — why  not? 

Malise.  I  give  you  my  solemn  word 

Clare.  No!  if  I  can't  be  that  to  you — it's  not  real. 
And  I  can't.     It  isn't  to  be  manufactured,  is  it? 
Malise.  It  is  not. 
Clare.  To  make  use  of  you  in  such  a  way!    No. 

[She  moves  towards  the  door. 
Malise.  Where  are  you  going? 

Clare  does  not  answer.     She  is  breathing  rapidly. 
There  is  a  change  in  her,  a  sort  of  excitement  be- 
neath her  calmness. 
Malise.  Not  back  to  him?  [Clare  shakes  her  head] 
Thank  God!    But  where?    To  your  people  again? 
Clare.  No. 


48  THE  FUGITIVE  act  ii 

Malise.  Nothing — desperate? 

Clare.  Oh!  no. 

Malise.  Then  what — tell  me — come! 

Clare.  I  don't  know.     Women  manage  somehow. 

Malise.  But  you — poor  dainty  thing! 

Clare.  It's  all  right!    Don't  be  unhappy!    Please! 

Malise.  [Seizing  her  arm]  D'you  imagine  they'll 
let  you  off,  out  there — you  with  your  face?  Come, 
trust  me — trust  me!    You  must! 

Clare.  [Holding  out  her  hand]  Good-bye! 

Malise.  [Not  taking  that  hand]  This  great  damned 
world,  and — you!  Listen!  [The  sound  of  the  traffic  far 
down  below  is  audible  in  the  stillness]  Into  that  I  alone — 
helpless — without  money.  The  men  who  work  with 
you;  the  men  you  make  friends  of — d'you  think  they'll 
let  you  be?  The  men  in  the  streets,  staring  at  you, 
stopping  you — pudgy,  bull-necked  brutes;  devils  with 
hard  eyes;  senile  swine;  and  the  "chivalrous"  men, 
like  me,  who  don't  mean  you  harm,  but  can't  help 
seeing  you're  made  for  love!  Or  suppose  you  don't 
take  covert  but  struggle  on  in  the  open.  Society!  The 
respectable!  The  pious!  Even  those  who  love  you! 
Will  they  let  you  be?  Hue  and  cry!  The  hunt  was 
joined  the  moment  you  broke  away!  It  will  never  let 
up!  Covert  to  covert — till  they've  run  you  down,  and 
you're  back  in  the  cart,  and  God  pity  you! 

Clare.  Well,  I'll  die  running! 

Malise.  No,  no!    Let  me  shelter  you!    Let  me! 

Clare.  [Shaking  her  head  and  smiling]  I'm  going  to 
seek  my  fortune.     Wish  me  luck! 


ACT  n  THE  FUGITIVE  49 

Malise.  I  can't  let  you  go. 

CiiARE.  You  must. 

He  looks  into  her  face;  then,  realizing  that  she 
means  it,  stidderdy  bends  down  to  her  fingers, 
and  puts  his  lips  to  them. 

Malise.  Good  luck,  then!  Good  luck! 

He  releases  her  hand.  Just  touching  his  bent 
head  with  her  other  hand,  Clabe  turns  and 
goes.  Malise  remains  with  bowed  head,  listen- 
ing to  the  sound  of  her  receding  footsteps.  They 
die  away.  He  raises  himself,  and  strikes  out 
into  the  air  vnth  his  clenched  fist. 

curtain. 


ACT  III 

Malise's  sitting-room.  An  afternoon,  three  months 
later.  On  the  table  are  an  open  bottle  of  claret,  his 
hat,  and  some  tea-things.  Dovm  in  the  hearth  is  a 
kettle  on  a  lighted  spirit-stand.  Near  the  door 
stands  Haywood,  a  short,  round-faced  man,  with 
a  tobacco-coloured  moustache;  Malise,  by  the  table, 
is  contemplating  a  piece  of  blue  paper. 

Haywood.  Sorry  to  press  an  old  customer,  sir,  but 

a  year  and  an  'alf  without  any  return  on  your  money 

Malise.  Your  tobacco  is  too  good,  Mr.  Haywood. 
I  wish  I  could  see  my  way  to  smoking  another. 
Haywood.  Well,  sir — that's  a  funny  remedy. 

Wiih  a  knock  on  the  half-opened  door,  a  Boy  ap- 
pears. 
Malise.  Yes.     What  is  it? 

Boy.  Your  copy  for  "The  Watchfire,"  please,  sir. 
Malise.  {Motioning  him  ov£[  Yes.     Wait! 

The  Boy  withdraws.     Malise  goes  up  to  the  pile 
of  books,  turns  them  over,  and  takes  up  some 
volumes. 
Malise.  This  is  a  very  fine  imexpurgated  translation 
of   Boccaccio's    "Decameron,"    Mr.    Haywood — illus- 
trated.   I  should  say  you  would  get  more  than  the 
amount  of  your  bill  for  them. 
61 


52  THE  FUGITIVE  act  in 

Haywood.  [Shaking  his  head]  Them  books  worth 
three  pound  seven! 

Malise.  It's  scarce,  and  highly  improper.  Will 
you  take  them  in  discharge? 

Haywood.  [Torn  between  emotions]  Well,  I  'ardly 
know  what  to  say —  No,  sir,  I  don't  think  I'd  like 
to  'ave  to  do  with  that. 

Malise.  You  could  read  them  first,  you  know? 

Haywood.  [Dubiously]  I've  got  my  wife  at  'ome. 

Malise.  You  could  both  read  them. 

Haywood.  [Brought  to  his  bearings]  No,  sir,  I 
couldn't. 

Malise.  Very  well;  I'll  sell  them  myself,  and  you 
shall  have  the  result. 

Haywood.  Well,  thank  you,  sir.  I'm  sure  I  didn't 
want  to  trouble  you. 

Malise.  Not  at  all,  Mr.  Haywood.  It's  for  me  to 
apologize. 

Haywood.  So  long  as  I  give  satisfaction. 

Malise.  [Holding  the  door  for  him]  Certainly.  Good 
evening. 

Haywood.  Good  evenin',  sir;  no  ofiFence,  I  hope. 

Mause.  On  the  contrary. 

Doubtfully  Haywood  goes.  And  Malise  stands 
scratching  his  head;  then  slipping  the  bill  into 
one  of  the  volumes  to  remind  him,  he  replaces 
them  at  the  top  of  the  pile.  The  Boy  again 
advances  into  the  doorway. 

Malise.  Yes,  now  for  you. 

He  goes  to  the  table  and  takes  some  sheets  of  MS. 


8C.  I  THE  FUGITIVE  53 

from  an  old  'portfolio.     But  the  door  is  again 
timidly  pushed  open,  and  Haywood  reappears. 
Malise.  Yes,  Mr.  Haywood? 

Haywood.  About  that  little  matter,  sir.  If — if  it's 
any  convenience  to  you — I've — thought  of  a  place 

where  I  could 

Malise.  Read  them?  You'll  enjoy  them  thor- 
oughly. 

Haywood.  No,  sir,  no!  Where  I  can  dispose  of 
them. 

Malise.  {Holding  out  the  volumes]  It  might  be  as 
well.  [Haywood  takes  the  books  gingerly]  I  congratu- 
late you,  Mr.  Haywood;  it's  a  classic. 

Haywood.  Oh,  indeed — yes,  sir.     In  the  event  of 

there  being  any 

Malise.  Anything  over?     Carry  it  to   my  credit. 

Your  bill [He  hands  over  the  blue  paper]  Send  me 

the  receipt.     Good  evening! 

Haywood,  nonplussed,  and  trying  to  hide  the 

books  in  an  evening  paper,  fumbles  out :  "Good 

evenin',  sir!"   and  departs.      Malise  again 

takes  up  the  sheets  of  MS.  and  cons  a  sentence 

over  to  himself,  gazing  blankly  at  the  stolid 

Boy. 

Malise.  "Man  of  the  world — good  form  your  god! 

Poor  buttoned-up  philosopher"  [the  Boy  shifts  his  feet] 

"inbred  to  the  point  of  cretinism,  and  founded  to  the 

bone  on  fear  of  ridicule  [the  Boy  breathes  heavily] — you 

are  the  slave  of  facts!" 

[There  is  a  knock  on  the  door. 


54  THE  FUGITIVE  act  m 

Mause,  Who  is  it? 

The  door  is  pushed  open,  and  Reginald  Hunt- 
ingdon stands  there. 
Huntingdon.  I   apologize,   sir;   can   I   come   in   a 
minute? 

[Malise  bows  with  ironical  hostility. 
Huntingdon.   I  don't  know  if  you  remember  me — 
Clare  Dedmond's  brother. 
Malise.  I  remember  you. 

[He  motions  to  the  stolid  Boy  to  go  outside  again. 
Huntingdon.  I've  come  to  you,  sir,  as  a  gentle- 


Malise.  Some  mistake.  There  is  one,  I  believe,  on 
the  first  floor. 

Huntingdon.  It's  about  my  sister. 

Malise.  D — n  you!  Don't  you  know  that  I've 
been  shadowed  these  last  three  months?  Ask  your 
detectives  for  any  information  you  want. 

Huntingdon.  We  know  that  you  haven't  seen  her, 
or  even  known  where  she  is. 

Malise.  Indeed!  You've  found  that  out?  Bril- 
liant! 

Huntingdon.  We  know  it  from  my  sister. 

Malise.  Oh!  So  you've  tracked  her  down? 

Huntingdon.  Mrs.  FuUarton  came  across  her  yes- 
terday in  one  of  those  big  shops — selling  gloves. 

Malise.  Mrs.  FuUarton — the  lady  with  the  husband. 
Well!  you've  got  her.     Clap  her  back  into  prison. 

Huntingdon.  We  have  not  got  her.  She  left  at 
once,  and  we  don't  know  where  she's  gone. 


sc.  I  THE  FUGITIVE  55 

Malise.  Bravo! 

Huntingdon.  [Taking  hold  of  his  bit]  Look  here,  Mr. 
Malise,  in  a  way  I  share  your  feeling,  but  I'm  fond  of 
my  sister,  and  it's  damnable  to  have  to  go  back  to  India 
knowing  she  must  be  all  adrift,  without  protection, 
going  through  God  knows  what!  Mrs.  FuUarton  says 
she's  looking  awfully  pale  and  down. 

Malise.  [Struggling  between  resentment  and  sympa- 
thy] Why  do  you  come  to  me? 

Huntingdon.  We  thought 

Malise.  Who? 

Huntingdon.  My — my  father  and  myself. 

Malise.  Go  on. 

Huntingdon.  We  thought  there  was  just  a  chance 
that,  having  lost  that  job,  she  might  come  to  you 
again  for  advice.  If  she  does,  it  would  be  really  gen- 
erous of  you  if  you'd  put  my  father  in  touch  with  her. 
He's  getting  old,  and  he  feels  this  very  much.  [He 
hands  Malise  a  card]  This  is  his  address. 

Malise.  [Twisting  the  card\  Let  there  be  no  mistake, 
sir;  I  do  nothing  that  will  help  give  her  back  to  her 
husband.  She's  out  to  save  her  soul  alive,  and  I  don't 
join  the  hue  and  cry  that's  after  her.  On  the  contrary 
— if  I  had  the  power.  If  your  father  wants  to  shelter 
her,  that's  another  matter.  But  she'd  her  own  ideas 
about  that. 

Huntingdon.  Perhaps  you  don't  realize  how  unfit 
my  sister  is  for  rough  and  tumble.  She's  not  one  of 
this  new   sort  of  woman.     She's  always  been  looked 


56  THE  FUGITIVE  act  m 

after,  and  had  things  done  for  her.      Pluck  she's  got, 
but  that's  all,  and  she's  bound  to  come  to  grief. 

Mause.  Very  likely — the  first  birds  do.  But  if  she 
drops  half-way  it's  better  than  if  she'd  never  flown. 
Your  sister,  sir,  is  trying  the  wings  of  her  spirit,  out 
of  the  old  slave  market.  For  women  as  for  men,  there's 
more  than  one  kind  of  dishonour.  Captain  Hunting- 
don, and  worse  things  than  being  dead,  as  you  may 
know  in  your  profession. 

Huntingdon.  Admitted — but 

Malise.  We  each  have  our  own  views  as  to  what 
they  are.  But  they  all  come  to — death  of  our  spirits, 
for  the  sake  of  our  carcases.     Anything  more.? 

Huntingdon.  My  leave's  up.     I  sail  to-morrow.     If 
you  do  see  my  sister  I  trust  you  to  give  her  my  love 
and  say  I  begged  she  would  see  my  father. 
Mause.  If  I  have  the  chance — yes. 

He  makes  a  gesture  of  salute,  to  which  Hunting- 
don responds.     Then  the  loiter  turns  and  goes 
out. 
Malise.  Poor  fugitive!  Where  are  you  running  now? 
He  stands  at  the  window,  through  which  the  even- 
ing sunlight  is  powdering  the  room  with  smoky 
gold.     The  stolid  Boy  has  again  come  in.    Ma- 
lise stares  at  him,  then  goes  hack  to  the  table, 
takes  up  the  MS.,  and  booms  it  at  him;  he  re- 
ceives the  charge,  breathing  hard. 
Malise.  "Man  of  the  world — product  of  a  material 
age;  incapable  of  perceiving  reality  in  motions  of  the 
spirit;  having  'no  use,'  as  you  would  say,  for  'senti- 


Bc.  I  THE  FUGITIVE  57 

mental  nonesnse';  accustomed  to  believe  yourself  the 
national  spine — your  position  is  unassailable.  You  will 
remain  the  idol  of  the  country — arbiter  of  law,  parson 
in  mufti,  darling  of  the  playwright  and  the  novelist 
— God  bless  you! — while  waters  lap  these  shores." 

He  places  the  sheets  of  MS.  in  an  envelope,  and 
hands  them  to  the  Boy. 
Malise.  You're  going  straight  back  to  "The  Watch- 
fire"." 

Boy.  [Stolidly]  Yes,  sir. 

Malise.  [Staring    at   him]    You're    a    masterpiece. 
D'you  know  that.'' 
Boy.  No,  sir. 
Malise.  Get  out,  then. 

He  lifts  the  portfolio  from  the  table,  and  takes  it 
into  the  inner  room.  The  Boy,  putting  his 
thumb  stolidly  to  his  nose,  turns  to  go.  In  the 
doorway  he  shies  violently  at  the  figure  of  Clare, 
standing  there  in  a  dark-coloured  dress,  skids 
past  her  and  goes.  Clare  comes  into  the  gleam 
of  sunlight,  her  white  face  alive  with  emotion 
or  excitement.  She  looks  round  her,  smiles, 
sighs;  goes  swiftly  to  the  door,  closes  it,  and 
comes  back  to  the  table.  There  she  stands,  fin- 
gering the  papers  on  the  table,  smoothing  Ma- 
lise's  hat — loisifully,  eagerly,  waiting. 
Malise.  [Returning]  You! 

Clare.  [With  a  faint  smile]  Not  very  glorious,  is  it? 
He  goes  towards  her,  and  checks  himself,  then 
slews  the  armchair  round. 


58  THE  FUGITIVE  act  m 

Mause.  Come!  Sit  down,  sit  down!  [Clare,  heav- 
ing a  long  sigh,  sinks  down  into  the  chair]  Tea's  nearly 
ready. 

He  places  a  cushion  for  her,  and  prepares  tea;  she 
looks  up  at  him  softly,  hut  as  he  finishes  and 
turns  to  her,  she  drops  that  glance. 
Clare.  Do  you  think  me  an  awful  coward  for  com- 
ing? [She  has  taken  a  little  plain  cigarette  case  from  her 
dress]  Would  you  mind  if  I  smoked? 

Malise  shakes  his  head,  then  draws  back  from 
her  again,  as  if  afraid  to  be  too  close.     And 
again,  unseen,  she  looks  at  him. 
M.ALISE.  So  you've  lost  yoiu-  job? 

Clare.  How  did  you ? 

Malise.  Your  brother.     You  only  just  missed  him. 
[Clare  starts  up]  They  had  an  idea  you'd  come.     He's 
sailing  to-morrow — he  wants  you  to  see  your  father. 
Clare.  Is  father  ill? 
Malise.  Anxious  about  you. 

Clare.  I've  written  to  him  every  week.  [Excited] 
They're  still  hunting  me! 

Malise.  [Touching  her  shoulder  gently]  It's  all  right 
— all  right. 

She  sinks  again  into  the  chair,  and  again  he  with- 
draws.    And  once  more  she  gives  him  that  soft 
eager  look,  and  once  more  averts  it  as  he  turns 
to  her. 
Clare.  My  nerves  have  gone  funny  lately.     It's  be- 
ing always  on  one's  guard,  and  stufiFy  air,  and  feeling 


8c.  I  THE  FUGITIVE  59 

people  look  and  talk  about  you,  and  dislike  yoiu*  being 
there. 

Malise.  Yes;  that  wants  pluck. 

Clare.  [Shaking  her  head]  I  curl  up  all  the  time. 
The  only  thing  I  know  for  certain  is,  that  I  shall  never 
go  back  to  him.  The  more  I've  hated  what  I've  been 
doing,  the  more  sure  I've  been.  I  might  come  to  any- 
thing— but  not  that. 

Malise.  Had  a  very  bad  time? 

Clare.  [Nodding]  I'm  spoilt.  It's  a  curse  to  be  a 
lady  when  you  have  to  earn  your  living.  It's  not  really 
been  so  hard,  I  suppose;  I've  been  selling  things,  and 
living  about  twice  as  well  as  most  shop  girls. 

Malise.  Were  they  decent  to  you.'^ 

Clare.  Lots  of  the  girls  are  really  nice.  But  some- 
how they  don't  want  me,  can't  help  thinking  I've  got 
airs  or  something;  and  in  here  [She  touches  her  breast] 
I  don't  want  them! 

Malise.  I  know. 

Clare.  Mrs.  Fullarton  and  I  used  to  belong  to  a 
society  for  helping  reduced  gentlewomen  to  get  work. 
I  know  now  what  they  want:  enough  money  not  to 
work — that's  all!  [Svddenly  looking  up  at  him]  Don't 
think  me  worse  than  I  am — please!  It's  working  un- 
der people;  it's  having  to  do  it,  being  driven.  I  have 
tried,  I've  not  been  altogether  a  coward,  really!  But 
every  morning  getting  there  the  same  time;  every  day 
the  same  stale  "dinner,"  as  they  call  it;  every  evening 
the  same  "Good  evening.  Miss  Clare,"  "Good  evening. 
Miss  Simpson,"  "Good  evening.  Miss  Hart,"  "Good 
evening.  Miss  Clare."     And  the  same  walk  home,  or 


60  THE  FUGITIVE  act  ni 

the  same  'bus;  and  the  same  men  that  you  mustn't 
look  at,  for  fear  they'll  follow  you.  [She  rises]  Oh!  and 
the  feeling — always,  always — that  there's  no  sun,  or 
life,  or  hope,  or  anything.  It  was  just  like  being  ill, 
the  way  I've  wanted  to  ride  and  dance  and  get  out  into 
the  country.  [Her  excitement  dies  away  into  the  old 
clipped  composure,  and  she  sits  down  again]  Don't  think 
too  badly  of  me — it  really  is  pretty  ghastly! 

Malise.  [Gruffly]  H'm!    Why  a  shop? 

Clare.  References.  I  didn't  want  to  tell  more  lies 
than  I  could  help;  a  married  woman  on  strike  can't  tell 
the  truth,  you  know.  And  I  can't  typewrite  or  do 
shorthand  yet.  And  chorus — I  thought — you  wouldn't 
like. 

Malise.  I?    What  have  I ?  [He  checks  himself] 

Have  men  been  brutes.'' 

Clare.  [Stealing  a  look  at  him]  One  followed  me  a 
lot.  He  caught  hold  of  my  arm  one  evening.  I  just 
took  this  out  [She  draws  out  her  hatpin  and  holds  it  like 
a  dagger,  her  lip  drawn  back  as  the  lips  of  a  dog  going 
to  bite]  and  said:  "Will  you  leave  me  alone,  please.''" 
And  he  did.  It  was  rather  nice.  And  there  was  one 
quite  decent  little  man  in  the  shop — I  was  sorry  for 
him — such  a  humble  little  man! 

Malise.  Poor  devil — it's  hard  not  to  wish  for  the 
moon. 

At  the  tone  of  his  voice  Clare  looks  up  at  him; 
his  face  is  turned  away. 

Clare.  [Softly]  How  have  you  been?  Working  very 
hard? 

Malise.  As  hard  as  God  will  let  me. 


sc.  I  THE  FUGITIVE  61 

Clabe.  [Stealing  another  look]  Have  you  any  type- 
writing I  could  do?     I  could  learn,  and  I've  still  got 
a  brooch  I  could  sell.     Which  is  the  best  kind? 
Malise.  I  had  a  catalogue  of  them  somewhere. 

He  goes  into  the  inner  room.     The  moment  he  is 
gone,  Clake  stands  up,  her  hands  pressed  to 
her  cheeks  as  if  she  felt  them  flaming.     Then, 
with  hands  clasped,  she  stands  wailing.     He 
comes  hack  with  the  old  portfolio. 
Malise.  Can  you  typewrite  where  you  are? 
Clare.  I  have  to  find  a  new  room  anyway.     I'm 
changing — to  be  safe.  [She  takes  a  luggage  ticket  from 
her  glove]  I  took  my  things  to  Charing  Cross — only  a 
bag  and  one  trunk.  [Then,  with  that  queer  expression  on 
her  face  which  prefaces  her  desperations]  You  don't  want 
me  now,  I  suppose. 
Malise.  What? 

Clare.  [Hardly  above  a  whisper]  Because — if  you 
still  wanted  me — I  do — now. 

Malise.  [Staring  hard  into  her  face  that  is  quivering 

and  smiling]  You  mean  it?     You  do?     You  care ? 

Clare.  I've  thought  of  you — so  much !    But  only — 
if  you're  sure. 

He  clasps  her  and  kisses  her  closed  eyes;  and  so 
they  stand  for  a  moment,  till  the  sound  of  a 
latchkey  in  the  door  sends  them  apart. 
Maxise.  It's  the  housekeeper.     Give  me  that  ticket; 
I'll  send  for  your  things. 

Obediently  she  gives  him  the  ticket,  smiles,  and 
goes  quietly  into  the  inner  room.    Mrs.  Miler 


62  THE  FUGITIVE  act  in 

has  entered  ;  her  face,  more  Chinese  than  ever, 
shows  no  sign  of  having  seen. 
Malise.  That   lady    will    stay    here,    Mrs.    Miler. 

Kindly  go  with  this  ticket  to  the  cloak-room  at  Charing 

Cross  station,  and  bring  back  her  luggage  in  a  cab. 

Have  you  money? 

Mrs.  Miler.  'Arf  a  crown.  [She  takes  the  ticket — 

then  impassively]  In  case  you  don't  know — there's  two 

o'  them  men  about  the  stairs  now. 

The  moment  she  is  gone  Malise  makes  a  gesture 
of  maniacal  fury.  He  steals  on  tiptoe  to  the 
outer  door,  and  listens.  Then,  placing  his 
hand  on  the  knob,  he  turns  it  without  noise,  and 
wrenches  hack  the  door.  Transfigured  in  the 
last  sunlight  streaming  doion  the  corridor  are 
two  Tnen,  close  together,  listening  and  consulting 
secretly.  They  start  hack. 
Malise.  [With    strange,    almost    noiseless    ferocity] 

You've  run  her  to  earth;  your  job's  done.     Kennel  up, 

hounds!  [And  in  their  faces  he  slarns  the  door. 

curtain. 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  63 

SCENE  II 

Scene  II. — The  same,  early  on  a  winter  afternoon,  three 
months  later.  The  room  has  now  a  certain  dainti- 
ness. There  are  curtains  over  the  doors,  a  couch 
under  the  window,  all  the  books  are  arranged  on 
shelves.  In  small  vases,  over  the  fireplace,  are  a 
few  violets  and  chrysanthemums.  Malise  sits  hud- 
dled in  his  armchair  drawn  close  to  the  fire,  paper 
on  knee,  pen  in  hand.  He  looks  rather  grey  and 
drawn,  and  round  his  chair  is  the  v^ual  litter.  At 
the  table,  now  nearer  to  the  window,  Clare  sits 
working  a  typewriter.  She  finishes  a  line,  puts 
sheets  of  paper  together,  makes  a  note  on  a  card — 
adds  some  figures,  and  marks  the  total. 

Clare.  Kenneth,  when  this  is  paid,  I  shall  have 
made  two  pound  seventeen  in  the  three  months,  and 
saved  you  about  three  pounds.  One  hundred  and 
seventeen  shillings  at  tenpence  a  thousand  is  one 
hundred  and  forty  thousand  words  at  fourteen  hundred 
words  an  hour.  It's  only  just  over  an  hour  a  day. 
CanH  you  get  me  more? 

Malise  lifts  the  hand  that  holds  his  pen  and  lets 
it  fall  again.     Clare  puis  the  cover  on  the  type- 
writer, and  straps  it. 
Clare.  I'm  quite  packed.     Shall  I  pack  for  you? 
{He  nods]  Can't  we  have  more  than  three  days  at  the 
sea?     [He  shakes  his  head.     Going  up  to  him]  You  did 
sleep  last  night. 


64  THE  FUGITIVE  act  ra 

Malise.  Yes,  I  slept. 

Clare.  Bad  head.''  [Malise  nods]  By  this  time  the 
day  after  to-morrow  the  case  will  be  heard  and  done 
with.  You're  not  worrying  for  me.''  Except  for  my 
poor  old  Dad,  I  don't  care  a  bit. 

Malise  heaves  himself  out  of  the  chair,  and  begins 
pacing  up  and  down. 

Clare.  Kenneth,  do  you  understand  why  he  doesn't 
claim  damages,  after  what  he  said  that  day — here? 
[Looking  suddenly  at  him]  It  is  true  that  he  doesn't? 

Malise.  It  is  not. 

Clare.  But  you  told  me  yourself 

Malise.  I  lied. 

Clare.  Why.? 

Malise.  [Shrugging]  No  use  lying  any  longer — 
you'd  know  it  to-morrow. 

Clare.  How  much  am  I  valued  at.'' 

Malise.  Two  thousand.  [Grimly]  He'll  settle  it  on 
you.  [He  laughs]  Masterly!  By  one  stroke,  destroys 
his  enemy,  avenges  his  "honour,"  and  gilds  his  name 
with  generosity! 

Clare.  Will  you  have  to  pay? 

Malise.  Stones  yield  no  blood. 

Clare.  Can't  you  borrow? 

Malise.  I  couldn't  even  get  the  costs. 

Clare.  Will  they  make  you  bankrupt,  then?  [Ma- 
lise nods]  But  that  doesn't  mean  that  you  won't  have 
your  income,  does  it?  [Malise  laughs]  What  is  your  in- 
come, Kenneth?  [He  is  silent]  A  hundred  and  fifty 
from  "The  Watchfire,"  I  know.     What  else? 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  65 

Malise.  Out  of  five  books  I  have  made  the  sum  of 
forty  pounds. 

Clare.  What  else?    Tell  me. 

Malise.  Fifty  to  a  hundred  pounds  a  year.    Leave 
me  to  gnaw  my  way  out,  child. 

Clare  stands  looking  at  him,  in  distress,  then  goes 
quickly   into   the   room   behind   her,    Malise 
takes  up  his  paper  and  pen.     The  paper  is  quite 
blank. 
Malise.  [Feeling  his  head]  Full  of  smoke. 

He  drops  paper  and  pen,  and  crossing  to  the  room 
on  the  left  goes  in.  Clare  re-enters  with  a 
small  leather  box.  She  puts  it  down  on  her 
typing  table  as  Malise  returns  followed  by  Mrs. 
MiLER,  wearing  her  hat,  and  carrying  his  over- 
coat. 
Mrs.  Miler.  Put  your  coat  on.     It's  a  bitter  wind. 

[He  puts  on  the  coat. 
Clare.  Where  are  you  going? 
Malise.  To  "The  Watchfire." 

The  door  closes  behind  him,  and  Mrs.  Miler 
goes  up  to  Clare  holding  out  a  little  blv£  bot- 
tle with  a  red  label,  nearly  full. 
Mrs.  Miler.  You  know  he's  takin'  this  [She  makes 
a  little  motion  towards  her  mouth]  to  make  'im  sleep? 
Clare.  [Reading  the  label]  Where  was  it? 
Mrs.  Miler.  In   the   bathroom   chest   o'    drawers, 
where  'e  keeps  'is  odds  and  ends.     I  was  lookin'  for  'is 
garters. 

Clare.  Give  it  to  me! 


66  THE   FUGITIVE  act  ra 

Mrs.  MiiiER.  He  took  it  once  before.  He  must  get 
his  sleep. 

Clare.  Give  it  to  me! 

Mrs.  Miler  resigns  it,  Clare  takes  the  cork 
ovi,  smells,  then  tastes  it  from  her  finger.  Mrs. 
Miler,  twisting  her  ajyron  in  her  hands,  speaks. 

Mrs.  Miler.  I've  'ad  it  on  my  mind  a  long  time  to 
speak  to  yer.  Your  comin'  'ere's  not  done  'im  a  bit 
o'  good. 

Clare.  Don't! 

Mrs.  Miler.  I  don't  want  to,  but  what  with  the 
worry  o'  this  'ere  divorce  suit,  an'  you  bein'  a  lady  an' 
'im  havin'  to  be  so  careful  of  yer,  and  tryin'  to  save, 
not  smokin'  all  day  like  'e  used,  an'  not  gettin'  'is 
two  bottles  of  claret  regular;  an'  losin'  his  sleep,  an' 
takin'  that  stuff  for  it;  and  now  this  'ere  last  business. 
I've  seen  'im  sometimes  holdin'  'is  'ead  as  if  it  was 
comin'  off.  [Seeing  Clare  wince,  she  goes  on  with  a  sort 
of  compassion  in  her  Chinese  face\  I  can  see  yer  fond  of 
him;  an'  I've  nothin'  against  yer — you  don't  trouble 
me  a  bit;  but  I've  been  with  'im  eight  years — we're 
used  to  each  other,  and  I  can't  bear  to  see  'im  not 
'imself,  really  I  can't. 

She  gives  a  sudden  sniff.  Then  her  emotion  parses, 
leaving  her  as  Chinese  cw  ever. 

Clare.  This  last  business — what  do  you  mean  by 
that.? 

Mrs.  Miler.  If  'e  a'n't  told  yer,  I  don't  know  that 
I've  any  call  to. 

Clare.  Please. 


8c.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  67 

Mrs.  Miler.  [Her  hands  tvmting  very  fast]  Well,  it's 
to  do  with  this  'ere  "Watchfire."  One  of  the  men 
that  sees  to  the  writin'  of  it — 'e's  an  old  friend  of  Mr. 
Malise,  'e  come  'ere  this  mornin'  when  you  was  out. 
I  was  doin'  my  work  in  there  [She  joints  to  the  room  on 
the  right]  an'  the  door  open,  so  I  'eard  'em.  Now 
you've  'ung  them  curtains,  you  can't  'elp  it. 

Clare.  Yes.'' 

Mrs.  Miler.  It's  about  your  divorce  case.  This 
'ere  "Watchfire,"  ye  see,  belongs  to  some  fellers  that 
won't  'ave  their  men  gettin'  into  the  papers.  So  this 
'ere  friend  of  Mr.  Malise — very  nice  'e  spoke  about 
it — "If  it  comes  into  Court,"  'e  says,  "you'll  'ave  to 
go,"  'e  says.  "These  beggars,  these  dogs,  these  logs," 
'e  says,  "they'll  'oof  you  out,"  'e  says.  An'  I  could 
tell  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  'e  meant  it — proper 
upset  'e  was.     So  that's  that! 

Clare.  It's  inhuman! 

Mrs.  Miler.  That's  what  I  thinks;  but  it  don't 
'elp,  do  it?  "  'Tain't  the  circulation,"  'e  says,  "  it's  the 
principle,"  'e  says;  and  then  'e  starts  in  swearin'  hor- 
rible. 'E's  a  very  nice  man.  And  Mr.  Malise, 'e  says: 
"Well,  that  about  does  for  me!"  'e  says. 

Clare.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Miler — I'm  glad  to  know. 

Mrs.  Miler.  Yes;  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  'ave 
told  you.  [Desperately  uncomfortable]  You  see,  I  don't 
take  notice  of  Mr.  Malise,  but  I  know  'im  very  well. 
'E's  a  good-'earted  gentleman,  very  funny,  that'll  do 
things  to  help  others,  and  what's  more,  keep  on  doin' 
'em,  when  they  hurt  'im;  very  obstinate  'e  is.    Now, 


68  THE   FUGITIVE  act  ni 

when  you  first  come  'ere,  three  months  ago,  I  says  to 
meself:  "He'll  enjoy  this  'ere  for  a  bit,  but  she's  too 
much  of  a  lady  for  'im."  What  'e  wants  about  'im 
permanent  is  a  woman  that  thinks  an'  talks  about  all 
them  things  he  talks  about.  And  sometimes  I  fancy  'e 
don't  want  nothin'  permanent  about  'im  at  all. 

Clare.  Don't! 

Mrs.  Miler.  [With  another  sudden  sniff]  Gawd 
knows  I  don't  want  to  upset  ye.  You're  situated  very 
'ard;  an'  women's  got  no  business  to  'urt  one  another 
— that's  what  I  thinks. 

Clare.  Will  you  go  out  and  do  something  for  me? 
[Mrs.  Miler  nods.  Clare  takes  up  the  sheaf  of  papers 
and  from  the  leather  box  a  note  and  an  emerald  pendant] 
Take  this  with  the  note  to  that  address — it's  quite 
close.  He'll  give  you  thirty  pounds  for  it.  Please  pay 
these  bills  and  bring  me  back  the  receipts,  and  what's 
over. 

Mrs.  Miler.  [Taking  the  pendant  and  note]  It's  a 
pretty  thing. 

Clare.  Yes.     It  was  my  mother's. 

Mrs.  Miler.  It's  a  pity  to  part  with  it;  ain't  you 
got  another.? 

Clare.  Nothing  more,  Mrs.  Miler,  not  even  a  wed- 
ding ring. 

Mrs.  Miler.  [Without  expression]  You  make  my 
'cart  ache  sometimes. 

She  wraps  pendant  and  note  into  her  handker- 
chief and  goes  out  to  the  door. 

Mrs.  Miler.  [From  the  door]  There's  a  lady  and 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  69 

gentleman    out    here.    Mrs.   Fuller — wants    you,   not 
Mr.  Malise. 

Clare.  Mrs.  Fullarton.''  [Mrs.  Miler  nods]  Ask 
them  to  come  in. 

Mrs.  Miler  opens  the  door  wide,  says  "Come 
in,"  and  goes.  Mrs.  Fullarton  is  accom- 
panied not  by  Fullarton,  but  by  the  laivyer, 
Twisden.     They  come  in. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Clare!  My  dear!  How  are  you 
after  all  this  time? 

Clare.  [Her  eyes  fixed  on  Twisben]  Yes? 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  [Disconcerted  by  the  strange  greet- 
ing] I  brought  Mr.  Twisden  to  tell  you  something. 
May  I  stay? 

Clare.  Yes.  [iS^  points  to  the  chair  at  the  same  table : 
Mrs.  Fullarton  sits  down]  Now! 

[Twisden  comes  forward. 

Twisden.  As  you're  not  defending  this  case,  Mrs. 
Dedmond,  there  is  nobody  but  yourself  for  me  to 
apply  to. 

Clare.  Please  tell  me  quickly,  what  you've  come  for. 

Twisden.  [Botoing  slightly]  I  am  instructed  by  Mr. 
Dedmond  to  say  that  if  you  will  leave  your  present 
companion  and  undertake  not  to  see  him  again,  he 
will  withdraw  the  suit  and  settle  three  hundred  a 
year  on  you.  [At  Clare's  movement  of  abhorrence] 
Don't  misunderstand  me,  please — it  is  not — it  could 
hardly  be,  a  request  that  you  should  go  back.  Mr. 
Dedmond  is  not  prepared  to  receive  you  again.  The 
proposal — forgive  my  saying  so — remarkably  Quixotic 


70  THE  FUGITIVE  act  m 

— is  made  to  save  the  scandal  to  his  family  and  your 
own.  It  binds  you  to  nothing  but  the  abandonment 
of  your  present  companion,  with  certain  conditions  of 
the  same  nature  as  to  the  future.  In  other  words,  it 
assures  you  a  position — so  long  as  you  live  quietly  by 
yourself. 

Clare.  I  see.  Will  you  please  thank  Mr.  Dedmond, 
and  say  that  I  refuse? 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Clare,  Clare!  For  God's  sake 
don't  be  desperate. 

[Clare,  deathly  still,  just  looks  at  her. 

TwiSDEN.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  I  am  bound  to  put  the 
position  to  you  in  its  naked  brutality.  You  know 
there's  a  claim  for  damages? 

Clare.  I  have  just  learnt  it. 

TwiSDEN.  You  realize  what  the  result  of  this  suit 
must  be:  You  will  be  left  dependent  on  an  undischarged 
bankrupt.  To  put  it  another  way,  you'll  be  a  stone 
round  the  neck  of  a  drowning  man. 

Clare.  You  are  cowards. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Clare,  Clare!  [To  Twisden]  She 
doesn't  mean  it;  please  be  patient. 

Clare.  I  do  mean  it.  You  ruin  him  because  of  me. 
You  get  him  down,  and  kick  him  to  intimidate  me. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  My  dear  girl !  Mr.  Twisden  is 
not  personally  concerned.     How  can  you? 

Clare.  If  I  were  dying,  and  it  would  save  me,  I 
wouldn't  take  a  penny  from  my  husband. 

Twisden.  Nothing  could  be  more  bitter  than  those 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  71 

words.    Do  you  really  wish  me  to  take  them  back  to 
him? 

Clare.  Yes.  [She  turns  from  them  to  the  fire. 

Mrs.  FiiLiiARTON.  [In  a  low  voice  to  Twisden]  Please 
leave  me  alone  with  her,  don't  say  anything  to  Mr. 
Dedmond  yet. 

Twisden.  Mrs.  Dedmond,  I  told  you  once  that  I 
wished  you  well.  Though  you  have  called  me  a  cow- 
ard, I  still  do  that.  For  God's  sake,  think — before 
it's  too  late. 

Clare.  [Putting  out  her  hand  blindly]  I'm  sorry  I 
called  you  a  coward.     It's  the  whole  thing,  I  meant. 

Twisden.  Never  mind  that.    Think! 

With  the  curious  little  moveTneni  of  one  who  sees 
something  he  does  not  like  to  see,  he  goes.  Clare 
is  leaning  her  forehead  against  the  mantelshelf, 
seemingly  unconscious  that  she  is  not  alone. 
Mrs.  Fullarton  approaches  quietly  till  she  can 
see  Clare's /ace. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  My  dear  sweet  thing,  don't  be 
cross  with  me  I  [Clare  turns  from  her.  It  is  all  the 
time  as  if  she  were  trying  to  get  away  from  words  and 
people  to  something  going  on  within  herself]  How  can  I 
help  wanting  to  see  you  saved  from  all  this  ghastliness? 

Clare.  Please  don't,  Dolly!    Let  me  be! 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  I  must  speak,  Clare!  I  do  think 
you're  hard  on  George.  It's  generous  of  him  to  oflFer 
to  withdraw  the  suit — considering.  You  do  owe  it  to 
us  to  try  and  spare  your  father  and  your  sisters  and — 
and  all  of  us  who  care  for  you. 


72  THE  FUGITIVE  act  m 

Clare.  [Facing  her]  You  say  George  is  generous! 
If  he  wanted  to  be  that  he'd  never  have  claimed  those 
damages.  It's  revenge  he  wants — I  heard  him  here. 
You  think  I've  done  him  an  injury.  So  I  did — when 
I  married  him.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  come  to, 
Dolly,  but  I  shan't  fall  so  low  as  to  take  money  from 
him.     That's  as  certain  as  that  I  shall  die. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Do  you  know,  Clare,  I  think  it's 
awful  about  you!  You're  too  fine,  and  not  fine 
enough,  to  put  up  with  things;  you're  too  sensitive 
to  take  help,  and  you're  not  strong  enough  to  do  with- 
out it.  It's  simply  tragic.  At  any  rate,  you  might 
go  home  to  your  people. 

Clare.  After  this ! 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  To  us,  then? 

Clare.  "If  I  could  be  the  falling  bee,  and  kiss  thee 
all  the  day!"     No,  Dolly! 

Mrs.  Fullarton  turns  from  her  ashamed  and 
baffled,  but  her  quick  eyes  take  in  the  room,  try- 
ing to  seize  on  some  new  'point  of  attack. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  You  can't  be — you  aren't — happy, 
here  ? 

Clare.  Aren't  I  ? 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Oh!  Clare!  Save  yourself — and 
all  of  us! 

Clare.  [Very  still]  You  see,  I  love  him. 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  You  used  to  say  you'd  never  love; 
did  not  want  it — would  never  want  it. 

Clare.  Did  I  ?    How  funny ! 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  73 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  Oh!  my  dear!  Don't  look  like 
that,  or  you'll  make  me  cry. 

Clare.  One  doesn't  always  know  the  future,  does 
one?  [Desperately]  I  love  him!    I  love  him! 

Mrs.  FuLiiARTON.  [Suddenly]  If  you  love  him,  what 
will  it  be  like  for  you,  knowing  you've  ruined  him? 
Clare.  Go  away!    Go  away! 
Mrs.  Fullarton.  Love! — you  said! 
Clare.  [Quivering  at  that  stab — suddenly]  I  must — 
I  will  keep  him.    He's  all  I've  got. 
Mrs.  Fullarton.  Can  you — can  you  keep  him? 
Clare.  Go! 

Mrs.  Fullarton.  I'm  going.  But,  men  are  hard  to 
keep,  even  when  you've  not  been  the  ruin  of  them. 
You  know  whether  the  love  this  man  gives  you  is 
really  love.  If  not — God  help  you!  [She  turns  at  the 
door,  and  says  mournfully]  Good-bye,  my  child!    If 

you  can 

Then  goes.  Clare,  almost  in  a  whisper,  repeats 
the  words:  "Love!  you  said!"  At  the  sound  of 
a  latchkey  she  runs  as  if  to  escape  into  the  bed- 
room, but  changes  her  mind  and  stands  blot- 
ted against  the  curtain  of  the  door.  Malise 
enters.  For  a  moment  he  does  not  see  her  stand- 
ing there  against  the  curtain  that  is  much  the 
same  colour  as  her  dress.  His  face  is  that  of  a 
man  in  the  grip  of  a  rage  that  he  feels  to  be  im- 
potent. Then,  seeing  her,  he  pulls  himself  to- 
gether, walks  to  his  armchair,  and  sits  down 
there  in  his  hat  and  coat. 


74  THE  FUGITIVE  act  ra 

Clare.  Well?  "The  Watchfire?"  You  may  as 
well  tell  me. 

Malise.  Nothing  to  tell  you,  child. 

At  that  touch  of  tenderness  she  goes  up  to  his 
chair  and  kneels  down  beside  it.  Mechanically 
Mause  takes  off  his  hoi. 

Clare.  Then  you  are  to  lose  that,  too?  [Malise 
stares  at  her]  I  know  about  it — never  mind  how. 

Malise.  Sanctimonious  dogs! 

Clare.  [Very  low]  There  are  other  things  to  be  got, 
aren't  there? 

Malise.  Thick  as  blackberries.  I  just  go  out  and 
cry,  "Malise,  unsuccessful  author,  too  honest  journal- 
ist, freethinker,  co-respondent,  bankrupt,"  and  they 
tumble! 

Clare.  [Quietly]  Kenneth,  do  you  care  for  me? 
[Malise  stares  at  her]  Am  I  anything  to  you  but  just 
prettiness? 

Malise.  Now,  now!  This  isn't  the  time  to  brood! 
Rouse  up  and  fight. 

Clare.  Yes. 

Malise.  We're  not  going  to  let  them  down  us,  are 
we?  [She  rubs  her  cheek  against  his  hand,  that  still  rests 
on  her  shoulder]  Life  on  sufiferance,  breath  at  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  enemy!  And  some  day  in  the  fullness  of 
his  mercy  to  be  made  a  present  of  the  right  to  eat  and 
drink  and  breathe  again.  [His  gesture  sums  up  the  rage 
within  him]  Fine!  [He  puts  his  hat  on  and  rises]  That's 
the  last  groan  they  get  from  me. 

Clare.  Are  you  going  out  again?  [He  nods]  Where? 


sc.  u  THE  FUGITIVE  75 

Malise.  Blackberrying!  Our  train's  not  till  six. 
He  goes  into  the  bedroom.  Clabe  gets  up  and 
stands  by  the  fire,  looking  round  in  a  dazed 
way.  She  puts  her  hand  up  and  mechanic- 
ally gathers  together  the  violets  in  the  little 
vase.  Suddenly  she  twists  them  to  a  button- 
hole, and  sinks  down  into  the  armx;hair,  which 
he  must  pass.  There  she  sits,  the  violets  in  her 
hand.  Malise  comes  out  and  crosses  towards 
the  outer  door.  She  puts  the  violets  up  to  him. 
He  stares  at  them,  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and 
passes  on.  For  just  a  moment  Clare  siis 
motionless. 

Clare.  [Quietly]  Give  me  a  kiss! 

He  turns  and  kisses  her.  Bui  his  lips,  after 
that  kiss,  have  the  furtive  bitterness  one  sees 
on  the  lips  of  those  who  have  done  what  does 
not  suit  their  mood.  He  goes  out.  She  is  left 
motionless  by  the  armchair,  her  throat  working. 
Then,  feverishly,  she  goes  to  the  little  table, 
seizes  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  vrrites.  Looking  up 
suddenly  she  sees  that  Mrs.  Mileb  has  let 
herself  in  with  her  latchkey. 

Mrs.  Miler.  I've  settled  the  baker,  the  milk,  the 
washin'  an'  the  groceries — this  'ere's  what's  left. 

She  counts  dawn  a  five-pound  note,  four  sovereigns, 
and  two  shillings  on  to  the  little  table.  Clare 
folds  the  letter  into  an  envelope,  then  takes  up 
the  five-pound  note  and  puts  it  into  her  dress. 

Clare.  {Pointing  to  the  money  on  the  table]  Take 


76  THE  FUGITIVE  act  m 

your  wages;  and  give  him  this  when  he  comes  in.     I'm 
going  away. 

Mrs.  Miler.  Without  him?  When'll  you  be  comin' 
back.'' 

Clare.  [Rising]  I  shan't  be  coming  back.  [Gazing 
at  Mrs.  Miler's  hands,  which  are  plaiting  at  her  dress] 
I'm  leaving  Mr.  Malise,  and  shan't  see  him  again. 
And  the  suit  against  us  will  be  withdrawn — the  divorce 
suit — you  understand? 

Mrs.  Miler.  [Her  face  all  broken  up]  I  never  meant 
to  say  anything  to  yer. 

Clare.  It's  not  you.  I  can  see  for  myself.  Don't 
make  it  harder;  help  me.     Get  a  cab. 

Mrs.  Miler.  [Disturbed  to  the  heart]  The  porter's 
outside,  cleanin'  the  landin'  winder. 

Clare.  Tell  him  to  come  for  my  trunk.  It  is 
packed.  [She  goes  into  the  bedroom. 

Mrs.  Miler.  [Opening  the  door — desolately]  Come 
*ere! 

[The  Porter  appears  in  shirt-sleeves  at  the  door. 
Mrs.  Miler.  The  lady   wants   a  cab.    Wait  and 
carry- 'er  trunk  down. 

Clare  conies  from  the  bedroom  in  her  hat  and 
coat. 
Mrs.  Miler.  [To  the  Porter]  Now. 

They  go  into  the  bedroom  to  get  the  trunk.  Clare 
picks  up  from  the  floor  the  bunch  of  violets,  her 
fingers  play  vnth  it  as  if  they  did  not  quite  know 
what  it  was;  and  she  stands  by  the  armchair  very 
still,  while  Mrs.  Miler  and  the  Porter  pass 


sc.  n  THE  FUGITIVE  77 

her  with  trunk  and  bag.  And  even  after  the 
Porter  has  shouldered  the  trunk  outside,  and 
marched  away,  and  Mrs.  Miler  has  come  hack 
into  the  room,  Clare  still  stands  there. 

Mrs.  Miler.  [Pointing  to  the  typewriter]  D'you  want 
this  'ere,  too.'* 

Clare.  Yes. 

Mrs.  Miler  carries  it  out.  Then,  from  the  door- 
way, gazing  at  Clare  taking  her  last  look,  she 
sobs,  suddenly.  At  sound  of  that  sob  Clare 
throws  up  her  head. 

Clare.  Don't!    It's  all  right.     Good-bye! 

She  walks  out  and  away,  not  looking  back.  Mrs. 
Miler  chokes  her  sobbing  into  the  black  stuff 
of  her  thick  old  jacket. 

curtain. 


ACT  IV 

Supper-time  in  a  small  room  at  "The  Gascony"  on 
Derby    Day.     Through   the   windows    of   a   broad 
corridor,  out  of  which  the  door  opens,  is  seen  the 
dark  blue  of  a  summer  night.     The  walls  are  of 
apricot-gold;    the    carpets,   curtains,    lamp-shades, 
and  gilded  chairs,  of  red;  the  wood-work  and  screens 
white;  the  palms  in  gilded  tubs.    A  doorway  the 
has   no   door  leads  to  another  small  room.     Or 
little  table  behind  a  screen,  and  one  little  table  i^ 
the  open,  are  set  for  two  persons  each.     On  a  set 
ice-table,  above  which  hangs   a  speaking-tube,  a^ 
some  dishes  of  hors  d'oeuvres,  a  basket  of  peach 
two  bottles  of  champagne  in  ice-pails,  and  a  sr 
barrel  of  oysters  in  a  gilded  tub.    Arnaud, 
waiter,  slim,  dark,  quick,  his  face  seamed  vntlda 
quiet,  soft  irony,  is  opening  oysters  and  listenjig 
to  the  robust  joy  of  a  distant  supper-party,  when  a 
man  is  playing  the  last  bars  of:  "Do  ye  ken  ji 
Peel"  on  a  horn.    As  the  sound  dies  away\he 
murmurs:  "Tres  Joli!"  and  opens  another 
Two  Ladies  with  bare  shoulders  and  large  hats  joss 
down  the  corridor.     Their  talk  is  faintly  waftetin ; 
"Well,  I  never  like  Derby  night!    The  bo3  do 
get  so  bobbish ! "    "  That  hom — vulgar,  I  caf  t ! ' ' 
79 


80  THE  FUGITIVE  act  iv 

Arnaud's  eyebrows  rise,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
droop.  A  Lady  with  bare  shoulders,  and  crimson 
roses  in  her  hair,  comes  along  the  corridor,  and  stops 
for  a  second  at  the  window,  for  a  man  to  join  her. 
They  come  through  into  the  room.  Arnaud  has 
sprung  to  attention,  but  with:  "Let's  go  in  here, 
shall  we?"  they  pass  through  into  the  further  room. 
The  Manager,  a  gentleman  with  neat  moustaches, 
and  buttoned  into  a  frock-coat,  has  appeared,  brisk, 
noiseless,  his  eyes  everywhere;  he  inspects  the  peaches. 

Manager.  Four  shillin'  apiece  to-night,  see? 
Arnaud.  Yes,  Sare. 

From  the  inner  room  a  young  man  and  his  partner 
have  come  in.  She  is  dark,  almost  Spanish- 
looking;  he  fair,  languid,  pale,  clean-shaved, 
slackly  smiling,  with  half-closed  eyes — one  of 
those  who  are  bred  and  dissipated  to  the  point  of 
having  lost  all  save  the  capacity  for  hiding  their 
emotions.  He  speaks  in  a — 
Languid  Voice.  Awful  row  they're  kiekin'  up  in 
tlere,  Mr.  Varley.     A  fellow  with  a  horn. 

Manager.  [Blandly]  Gaddesdon  Hunt,  my  lord — 
alvays  have  their  supper  with  us,  Derby  night.  Quiet 
coner  here,  my  lord.     Arnaud! 

Arnaud  is  already  at  the  table,  between  screen 
and  palm.  And,  there  ensconced,  the  couple 
take  their  seats.  Seeing  them  safely  landed,  the 
Manager,  brisk  and  noiseless,  moves  away. 
In  the  corridor  a  lady  in  black,  with  a  cloak  fall- 


ACT  IV  THE  FUGITIVE  81 

ing  open,  seems  uncertain  whether  to  come  in. 
She  advances  into  the  doorway.     It  is  Clare. 
Ahnaud.  [Pointing  to  the  other  table  as  he  flies  with 
dishes]  Nice  table,  Madame. 

Clare  Tnoves  to  the  corner  of  it.     An  artist  in 
observation  of  his  clients,   Arnaud  takes  in 
her  face — very  pale  under  her  wavy,  simply- 
dressed  hair;   shadowy  beneath  the  eyes;  not 
powdered;  her  lips  not  reddened;  iviihoid  a  sin- 
gle ornament;  takes  in  her  black  dress,  finely 
cut,  her  arms  and  neck  beaidifully  white,  and 
at  her  breast  three  gardenias.     And  as  he  nears 
her,  she  lifts  her  eyes.     It  is  very  much  the  look 
of  something  lost,  appealing  for  guidance. 
Arnaud.  Madame  is   waiting  for  some  one.''  [She 
shakes  her  head]  Then  Madame  will  be  veree  well  here — 
veree  well.    I  take  Madame's  cloak.'* 

He  takes  the  cloak  gently  and  lays  it  on  the  back  of 
the  chair  fronting  the  room,  that  she  may  put  it 
round  her  when  she  wishes.     She  sits  down. 
Languid  Voice.  [From  the  corner]  Waiter! 
Arnaud.  Milord! 
Languid  Voice.  The  Roederer. 
Arnaud.  At  once,  milord. 

Clare  sits  tracing  a  pattern  with  her  finger  on 

the  cloth,  her  eyes  lowered.     Once  she  raises 

them,  and  follows  Arnaud's  dark  rapid  figure. 

Arnaud.  [Returning]  Madame   feels    the    'eat?  [He 

scans  her  with  increased  curiosity]  You  wish  something, 

Madame? 


82  THE  FUGITIVE  act  iv 

Clare.  [Again  giving  him  that  look]  Must  I  order? 
Abnaud.  Non,   Madame,   it  is   not  necessary.    A 
glass  of  water.     [He  pours  it  out]  I  have  not  the  pleas- 
ure of  knowing  Madame's  face. 
Clabe.  [Faintly  smiling]  No. 

Abnaud.  Madame  will  find  it  veree  good  *ere,  veree 
quiet. 
Languid  Voice.  Waiter! 

Abnaud.  Pardon!  [He  goes. 

The  bare-necked  ladies  with  large  hats  again  pass 
dovm  the  corridor  outside,  and  again  their 
voices  are  wafted  in:  "Tottiel  Not  she!  Oh! 
my  goodness,  she  has  got  a  pride  on  her!" 
"Bobbie'U    never    stick    it!"     "Look    here, 

dear "   Galvanized  by  those  sounds,  Clare 

has  caught  her  cloak  and  half -risen;  they  die 
away  and  she  subsides. 
Abnaud.  [Back  at  her  table,  with  a  quaint  shrug  to- 
wards the  corridor]  It  is  not  rowdy  here,  Madame,  as  a 
rule — not  as  in  some  places.     To-night  a  little  noise. 
Madame  is  fond  of  flowers?  [He  whisks  out,  and  returns 
almost  at  once  with  a  bowl  of  carnations  from  some  table 
in  the  next  room]  These  smell  good! 
Clare.  You  are  very  kind. 

Abnaud.  [With  courtesy]  Not  at  all,   Madame;   a 

pleasure.  [He  bows. 

A  young   man,  tall,    thin,  hard,  straight,  with 

close-cropped,  sandyish  hair  and  moustache,  a 

face  tanned  very  red,  and  one  of  those  small, 

long,  lean  heads  that  only  grow  in  Britain; 


ACT  IV  THE  FUGITIVE  83 

clad  in  a  thin  dark  overcoat  thrown  open,  an 
opera  hat  ptished  back,  a  white  waistcoat  round 
his  lean  middle,  he  comes  in  from  the  corridor. 
He  looks  round,  glances  at  Clare,  passes  her 
table  towards  the  further  room,  stops  in  the  door- 
way, and  looks  back  at  her.  Her  eyes  have  just 
been  lifted,  and  are  at  once  cast  down  again. 
The  young  man  wavers,  catches  Arnaud's  eye, 
jerks  his  head  to  summon  him,,  and  passes  into 
the  further  room.  Arnaud  takes  up  the  vase 
that  has  been  superseded,  and  follows  him  out. 
And  Clare  sits  alone  in  silence,  broken  by  the 
murmurs  of  the  languid  lord  and  his  partner, 
behind  the  screen.  She  is  breathing  as  if  she 
had  been  running  hard.  She  lifts  her  eyes. 
The  tall  young  man,  divested  of  hat  and  coat, 
is  standing  by  her  table,  holding  out  his  hand 
with  a  sort  of  bashful  hardiness. 

Young  Man.  How  d'you  do?  Didn't  recognize  you 
at  first.     So  sorry — awfully  rude  of  me. 

Clare's  eyes  seem  to  fly  from  him,  to  appeal  to 
him,  to  resign  herself  all  at  once.  Something  in 
the  Young  Man  responds.    He  drops  his  hand. 

Clare.  [Faintly]  How  d'you  do.'* 

Young  Man.  {Stammering]  You — you  been  down 
there  to-day? 

Clare.  Where? 

Young  Man.  [With  a  smile]  The  Derby.  What? 
Don't  you  generally  go  down?  [He  touches  the  other 
chair]  May  I? 


84  THE  FUGITIVE  act  iv 

Clake.  [Almost  in  a  whisper]  Yes. 

As  he  sits  down,  Aknaud  returns  and  stands 

before  them. 

Arnaud.  The   plovers'    eggs   veree   good   to-night, 

Sare.     Veree  good,  Madame.    A  peach  or  two,  after. 

Veree  good  peaches.     The  Roederer,  Sare — not  bad 

at  all.     Madame  likes  it  frappe,  but  not  too  cold — 


yes 


[He  is  away  again  to  his  service-table. 
Young  Man.  [Burying  his  face  in  the  carnations]  I 
say — these  are  jolly,  aren't  they.'*    They  do  you  pretty 
well  here. 
Claee.  Do  they.? 

Young  Man.  You've  never  been  here.'*  [Clare 
shakes  her  head]  By  Jove!  I  thought  I  didn't  know 
your  face.  [Clare  looks  full  at  him.  Again  something 
mxwes  in  the  Young  Man,  and  he  stammers]  I  mean — 

not 

Clare.  It  doesn't  matter. 

Young  Man.  [Respectfully]  Of  course,  if  I — if  you 

were  waiting  for  anybody,  or  anything — I 

[He  half  rises. 
Clare.  It's  all  right,  thank  you. 

The  Young  Man  sits  down  again,  uncomfort- 
able, nonplussed.  There  is  silence,  broken 
by  the  inaudible  words  of  the  languid  lord, 
and  the  distant  merriment  of  the  supper-party. 
Arnaud  brings  the  plovers'  eggs. 
Young  Man.  The  wine,  quick. 
Arnaud.  At  once,  Sare. 


ACT  IV  THE  FUGITIVE  85 

Young  Man.  [Ahruptly]  Don't  you  ever  go  racing, 
then? 
Clare.  No. 

[Ahnaud  pours  out  champagne. 

Young  Man.  I  remember  awfully   well   my  first 

day.     It  was  pretty  thick — ^lost  every  blessed  bob,  and 

my  watch  and  chain,  playin'  three  cards  on  the  way 

home. 

Clare.  Everything  has  a  beginning,  hasn't  it? 

[She  drinks.     The  Young  Man  stares  at  her. 
Young  Man.  [Floundering   in  these   waters  deeper 
than  he  had  bargained  for]  I  say — about  things  having 
beginnings — did  you  mean  anything? 

[Clare  nods. 
Young  Man.  What!    D'you  mean   it's  really  the 

first ? 

Clare  nods.     The  champagne   has  flicked   her 
courage. 
Young  Man.  By  George!  [He  leans  back]  I've  often 
wondered. 

Arnaud.  [Again     filing     the     glasses]     Monsieur 

finds 

Young  Man.  [Ahruptly]  It's  all  right. 

He  drains  his  glass,  then  sits  bolt  upright.     Chiv- 
alry and  the  camaraderie  of  class  have  begun  to 
stir  in  him. 
Young  Man.  Of  course  I  can  see  that  you're  not 
— I  mean,  that  you're  a — a  lady.  [Clare  smiles]  And 
I  say,  you  know — if  you  have  to — because  you're  in  a 
hole — I  should  feel  a  cad.    Let  me  lend  you ? 


86  THE  FUGITIVE  act  iv 

Clare.  [Holding  up  her  glass]  Le  vin  est  tirS,  U 
faut  le  boire  I 

She  drinks.  The  French  words,  which  he  does 
not  too  well  understand,  completing  his  convic- 
tion that  she  is  a  lady,  he  remains  quite  silent, 
frovming.  As  Clare  held  up  her  glass,  two  gen- 
tlemen have  entered.  The  first  is  blond,  of  good 
height  and  a  comely  insolence.  His  crisp,  fair 
hair,  and  fair  brushed-up  moustache  are  just  go- 
ing grey;  an  eyeglass  is  fixed  in  one  of  two  eyes 
that  lord  it  over  every  woman  they  see;  his  face  is 
broad,  and  coloured  vnth  air  and  vnne.  His 
companion  is  a  tall,  thin,  dark  bird  of  the  night, 
vnth  sly,  roving  eyes,  and  hollow  cheeks.  They 
stand  looking  round,  then  pass  into  the  further 
room;  but  in  passing,  they  have  stared  unre- 
servedly at  Clare. 
Young  Man.  [Seeing  her  vnnce]  Look  here!  I'm 
afraid  you  must  feel  me  rather  a  brute,  you  know. 
Clare.   No,  I  don't;  really. 

Young   Man.  Are   you   absolute   stoney?     [Clare 
nods]  But  [Looking  at  her  frock  and  cloak]  you're  so 

awfully  well 

Clare.  I  had  the  sense  to  keep  them. 
Young  Man.  [More  and  more  disturbed]  I  say,  you 
know — I  wish  you'd  let  me  lend  you  something.     I 
had  quite  a  good  day  down  there. 

Clare.  [Again  tracing  her  pattern  on  the  cloth — then 
looking  up  at  him  full]  I  can't  take,  for  nothing. 

Young  Man.  By  Jove!    I  don't  know — ^really,    I 


ACT  IV  THE  FUGITIVE  87 

don't — this  makes  me  feel  pretty  rotten.  I  mean,  it's 
your  being  a  lady. 

Clare.  [Smiling]  That's  not  your  fault,  is  it.''  You 
see,  I've  been  beaten  all  along  the  line.  And  I  really 
don't  care  what  happens  to  me.  [She  has  that  peculiar 
fey  look  on  her  face  now]  I  really  don't;  except  that  I 
don't  take  charity.    It's  lucky  for  me  it's  you,  and  not 

some 

The  supper-party  is  getting  still  more  boisterous, 
and  there  comes  a  long  view  holloa,  and  a  blast 
of  the  horn. 

YoTTNG  Man.  But  I  say,  what  about  your  people.'* 
You  must  have  people  of  some  sort. 

He  is  fast  becoming  fascinated,  for  her  cheeks  have 
begun  to  flush  and  her  eyes  to  shine. 

Clare.  Oh,  yes;  I've  had  people,  and  a  husband,  and 

— everything And  here  I  am!     Queer,  isn't  it? 

[She  touches  her  glass]  This  is  going  to  my  head!  Do 
you  mind.''  I  sha'n't  sing  songs  and  get  up  and  dance, 
and  I  won't  cry,  I  promise  you! 

Young  Man.  [Between  fascination  and  chivalry]  By 
George!  One  simply  can't  believe  in  this  happening 
to  a  lady 

Clare.  Have  you  got  sisters?  [Breaking  into  her  soft 
laughter]  My  brother's  in  India.  I  sha'n't  meet  him, 
anyway. 

Young  Man.  No,  but — I  say — are  you  really  quite 
cut  off  from  everybody?  [Clare  nods]  Something 
rather  awful  must  have  happened? 

She  smiles.     The  two  gertilemen  have  returned. 


88  THE  FUGITIVE  act  iv 

The  blond  one  is  again  staring  fixedly  at  Clare. 
This  time  she  looks  back  at  him,  flaming;  and, 
with  a  little  laugh,  he  parses  with  his  friend  into 
the  corridor. 
Clare.  Who  are  those  two? 

Young  Man.  Don't  know — not  been  much  about 
town  yet.  I'm  just  back  from  India  myself.  You  said 
your  brother  was  there;  what's  his  regiment.'' 

Clare.  [Shaking  her  head]  You're  not  going  to  find 
out  my  name.     I  haven't  got  one — nothing. 

She  leans  her  bare  elbows  on  the  table,  and  her 
face  on  her  hands. 
Clare.  First  of  June!     This  day  last  year  I  broke 
covert — I've  been  running  ever  since. 

Young   Man.  I   don't   understand   a   bit.     You — 

must  have  had  a — a — some  one 

But  there  is  such  a  change  in  her  face,  such  rigid- 
ity of  her  whole  body,  that  he  stops  and  averts 
his  eyes.     When  he  looks  again  she  is  drinking. 
She  puts  the  glass  down,  and  gives  a  little  laugh. 
Young  Man.  [With  a  sort  of  awe]  Anyway  it  must 
have  been  like  riding  at  a  pretty  stiff  fence,  for  you  to 
come  here  to-night. 

Clare.  Yes.     What's  the  other  side? 

The  Young  Man  puts  out  his  hand  and  touches 
her  arm.     It  is  meant  for  sympathy,  but  she 
takes  it  for  attraction. 
Clare.  [Shaking   her   head]  Not   yet — please!    I'm 
enjoying  this.     May  I  have  a  cigarette? 

[He  takes  out  his  case,  and  gives  her  one. 


ACT  IV  THE  FUGITIVE  89 

Clare.  [Letting  the  smoke  slowly  forth]  Yes,  I'm  en- 
joying it.  Had  a  pretty  poor  time  lately;  not  enough 
to  eat,  sometimes. 

Young  Man.  Not  really!  How  damnable!  I  say 
— do  have  something  more  substantial. 

Clare  gives  a  sudden  gasp,  as  if  going  off  into 
hysterical  laughter,  but  she  stifles  it,  and  shakes 
her  head. 
Young  Man.  A  peach? 

[Arnaud  brings  peaches  to  the  table. 
Clare.  [Smiling]  Thank  you. 

[He  fills  their  glasses  and  retreats. 
Clare.  [Raising  her  glass]  Eat  and  drink,  for  to- 
morrow we — Listen! 

FroTn  the  supper-party  comes  the  sound  of  an 
abortive  chorus:  "With  a  hey  ho,  chivy,  hark 
forrard,  hark  forrard,  tantivy!"     Jarring  out 
into  a  discordant  whoop,  it  sinks. 
Cla.re.  "This  day  a  stag  must  die."     Jolly  old  song ! 
Young  Man.  Rowdy  lot!  [Suddenly]  I  say — I  ad- 
mire your  pluck. 

Clare.  [Shaking  her  head]  Haven't  kept  my  end  up. 
Lots  of  women  do!  You  see:  I'm  too  fine,  and  not 
fine  enough!  My  best  friend  said  that.  Too  fine, 
and  not  fine  enough.  [She  laughs]  I  couldn't  be  a  saint 
and  martyr,  and  I  wouldn't  be  a  soulless  doll.  Neither 
one  thing  nor  the  other — that's  the  tragedy. 
Young  Man.  You  must  have  had  awful  luck! 
Clare.  I  did  try.  [Fiercely]  But  what's  the  good — 
when  there's  nothing  before  you? — Do  I  look  ill? 


90  THE  FUGITIVE  act  iv 

Young  Man.  No;  simply  awfully  pretty. 

CliARE.  [With  a  laugh]  A  man  once  said  to  me: 
"As  you  haven't  money,  you  should  never  have  been 
pretty!"  But,  you  see,  it  is  some  good.  If  I  hadn't 
been,  I  couldn't  have  risked  coming  here,  could  I? 
Don't  you  think  it  was  rather  sporting  of  me  to  buy 
these  [She  touches  the  gardenias]  with  the  last  shilling 
over  from  my  cab  fare.? 

Young  Man.  Did  you  really.?     D d  sporting! 

Clare.  It's  no  use  doing  things  by  halves,  is  it? 
I'm — in  for  it — wish  me  luck!  [She  drinks,  and  puts 
her  glass  down  with  a  smile]  In  for  it — deep!  [Slie 
flings  up  her  hands  above  her  smiling  face]  Down,  down, 
till  they're  just  above  water,  and  then — down,  down, 
down,  and — all  over!  Are  you  sorry  now  you  came 
and  spoke  to  me? 

Young  Man.  By  Jove,  no!  It  may  be  caddish,  but 
I'm  not. 

Clare.  Thank  God  for  beauty!  I  hope  I  shall  die 
pretty!    Do  you  think  I  shall  do  well? 

Young  Man.  I  say — don't  talk  like  that! 

Clare.  I  want  to  know.     Do  you? 

Young  Man.  Well,  then — yes,  I  do. 

Clare.  That's  splendid.  Those  poor  women  in  the 
streets  would  give  their  eyes,  wouldn't  they? — that 
have  to  go  up  and  down,  up  and  down!    Do  you 

think  I — shall 

The  Young  Man,  half-rising,  puts  his  hand  on 
her  arm. 

Young  Man.  I  think  you're  getting  much  too  ex- 


ACT  IV  THE  FUGITIVE  91 

cited.     You   look   all — Won't   you   eat   your   peach? 
[She  shakes  her  head]  Do!    Have  something  else,  then 
— some  grapes,  or  something? 
CiiABE.  No,  thanks. 

[She  has  become  quite  calm  again. 
Young  Man.  Well,  then,  what  d'you  think?    It's 
awfully  hot  in  here,  isn't  it?     Wouldn't  it  be  jollier 
drivin'?     Shall  we — shall  we  make  a  move? 
Clare.  Yes. 

The  Young  Man  turns  to  look  for  the  waiter, 
but  Aenaud  is  not  in  the  room.     He  gets  up. 

Young  Man.  [Feverishly]  D n  that  waiter!  Wait 

half  a  minute,  if  you  don't  mind,  while  I  pay  the  bill. 

As  he  goes  out  into  the  corridor,  the  two  gentlemen 
re-appear.     Clare  is  sitting  motionless,  look- 
ing straight  before  her. 
Dark  One.  A  fiver  you  don't  get  her  to! 
Blond  One.  Done! 

He  advances  to  her  table  with  his  inimitable  inso- 
lence, and  taking  the  cigar  from  his  mouth, 
bends  his  stare  on  her,  and  says:  "Charmed  to 
see  you  lookin'  so  well!  W^ill  you  have  sup- 
per with  me  here  to-morrow  night?"  Startled 
out  of  her  reverie,  Clare  looks  up.  She  sees 
those  eyes,  she  sees  beyond  him  the  eyes  of  his 
companion — sly,  malevolent,  amused — watch- 
ing; and  she  ju^t  sits  gazing,  without  a  word. 
At  that  regard,  so  clear,  the  Blond  One  does  not 
wince.  But  rather  .suddenly  he  says:  "That's 
arranged  then.  Half-past  eleven.  So  good 
of  you.     Good-night!"     He  replaces  his  cigar 


92  THE  FUGITIVE  act  iv 

and  strolls  back  to  his  companion,  and  in  a  low 
voice  says:  "Pay  up!"  Tfien  at  a  languid 
"Hullo,  Charles!"  they  turn  to  greet  the  two  in 
their  nook  behind  the  screen.  Claee  has  not 
moved,  nor  changed  the  direction  of  her  gaze. 
Suddenly  she  thrusts  her  hand  into  the  pocket 
of  the  cloak  that  hangs  behind  her,  and  brings 
out  the  little  bltie  bottle  which,  six  months  ago, 
she  took  from  Malise.  She  pulls  out  the  cork 
and  pours  the  whole  contents  into  her  champagne. 
She  lifts  the  glass,  holds  it  before  her — smiling, 
as  if  to  call  a  toast,  then  puts  it  to  her  lips  and 
drinks.  Still  smiling,  she  sets  the  empty  glass 
down,  and  lays  the  gardenia  flowers  against 
her  face.  Slowly  she  droops  back  in  her  chair, 
the  drowsy  smile  still  on  her  lips;  the  gardenias 
drop  into  her  lap;  her  arms  relax,  her  head  falls 
forward  on  her  breast.  And  the  voices  behind 
the  screen  talk  on,  and  the  sounds  of  joy  from  the 
supper-party  wax  and  wane. 
TJie  waiter,  Arnaud,  returning  from  the  corridor, 
passes  to  his  service-table  with  a  tall,  be-rib- 
boned  basket  of  fruit.  Putting  it  down,  he  goes 
towards  the  table  behind  the  screen,  and  sees. 
He  riins  up  to  Clare. 
Arnaud.  Madame!   Madame!    [He   listens  for    her 

breathing;  then  suddenly  catching  sight  of  the  little  bottle, 

smells  at  it]  Bon  Dieu ! 

At  that  queer  sound  they  come  from  behind  the  screen 
— all  four,  and  look.  The  dark  night  bird  says : 
"  Hallo ;  fainted ! "  Arnaud  holds  out  the  bottle. 


ACT  IV  THE  FUGITIVE  93 

Languid  Lord.  [Talcing  if,  and  smelling]  Good  God! 

The  woman  bends  over  Clare,  and  lifts  her  hands; 

Arnaud  rushes  to  his  service-table,  and  speaks 

into  his  tube: 

Arnaud.  The  boss.     Quick!  [Looking  up  he  sees  the 

Young  Man,  returning]  Monsieur,  elle  a  fui  I    Elle  est 

morte  ! 

Languid  Lord.  [To  the  Young  Man  standing  there 
aghast]  What's  this.'*     Friend  of  yours? 

Young  Man.  My  God !    She  was  a  lady.    That's 
all  I  know  about  her. 
Languid  Lord.  A  lady! 

The  blond  and  dark  gentlemen  have  slipped  from 
the  room;  and  out  of  the  supper-party^ s  distant 
laughter  comes  suddenly  a  long,  shrill:  "Gone 
away!"  And  the  sound  of  the  horn  playing 
the  seven  last  notes  of  the  old  song :  "This  day  a 
stag  must  die!"  From  the  last  note  of  all  the 
sound  flies  up  to  an  octave  higher,  sweet  and 
thin,  like  a  spirit  passing,  till  it  is  drowned 
once  more  in  laughter.  The  Young  Man  has 
covered  his  eyes  wiih  his  hands;  Arnaud  is 
crossing  himself  fervently ;  the  Languid  Lord 
stands  gazing,  with  one  of  the  dropped  gardenias 
twisted  in  his  fingers;  and  the  woman,  bending 
over  Clare,  kisses  her  forehead. 

curtain. 


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